She was awakened by the sun on her face, and saw him combing his fingers through the resplendent glory of his still-wet hair. His clothes from yesterday lay washed and spread out to dry on the tall, sweet grasses. He was wearing a fresh tunic of a slate grey hue, and his golden hair shone all the brighter against it.
She realized how filthy she was from yesterday, her dress soiled with dirt and blood, her hair matted, her face and hands grubby. She looked down at her blackened nails.
"Would you wish for some time to wash?" he rose to his feet. "I shall walk downwind and be back in about twenty minutes. If there is trouble and you call for me, I will hear." He left one sword for her on the grass, slung on the other one, turned his back to her and strolled away whistling a cheerful tune, still running his fingers through his shining hair.
He returned with his hair braided back from his face to find her in a fresh dress the colour of cornflowers, struggling to untangle the wet snarls in her hip-length flaxen hair without a comb, and suppressed a smile. He quickly checked on her wounds. They had healed astonishingly fast, and he left off the bandages, but lightly dabbed a thin layer of fragrant, minty ointment over the cuts and stitches.
As they rode south along the river, he sat behind instead of before her for about an hour, singing as he patiently worked through her hair with his long fingers, freeing her tresses from their knots and braiding them for her with skilful hands.
"It is the style of your people, if I recall rightly," he said, examining his handiwork with a critical eye.
Without aid of a glass, she lifted hands to her head, and was satisfied with what she felt.
An hour after they found the bridge over the Entwash and crossed, they saw another band of orcs heading their way, about fifteen strong.
"Stay," he said, as much to the horse as to her. And leaping from Asfaloth's back, he unslung his swords from his back, and ran like the wind to meet the orcs and keep the conflict as far away as possible. The orcs scattered in confusion before his charge. Dodging spears and deflecting arrows with his blades with dazzling swiftness, he chased them down and sought to drive them together and before him much as herders would their cattle, and keep them far from horse and maiden.
When finally the last orc was dead, he returned blood-spattered and whistling. He stopped and frowned when he saw her face.
"Why? What distresses you, child?"
"To be powerless to avenge the deaths of those I love," she said, her voice angry with helplessness. "To have others defend me, even lay down their lives for me, and stand uselessly by."
He looked at her. "Do the Rohirrim not train their daughters to defend themselves?"
"To wield a blade, yes, but for sport or play, not for war. It is my lot to sit with the women at home, and spin thread and weave and keep house. To sing the songs of heroes, and be none myself. And someday warm the bed of a lord, and bear him sons to fight in my stead."
Glorfindel stood quiet and still by Asfaloth, and looked up at her long with his deep blue eyes. "Not so, daughter of the horse lords," he said. "You may yet show yourself brave in deed, and be sung in the halls of warriors."
She looked at him disbelievingly. "What deeds for one not allowed to ride into battle?"
"These are dark and uncertain times. Who knows what the future may hold?" He swung himself onto Asfaloth, and said, "Let us be away from here. Two orc bands in two days. A third might yet follow. The Shadow grows."
The next time they stopped for a rest, after she had eaten a piece of elven wafer, he suddenly took one of his swords still in its scabbard and tossed it to her. Instinctively, she caught it, and looked at him, startled.
"Draw the blade, and show me what you know," he said. "It is a blade not for practice or sport but for battle. Have a care with it."
She stood up, and drew the shining blade forth from its scabbard. It was both longer and heavier than the practice blade she was used to. She used both hands and raised it, ignoring the stiffness and pain in her healing wounds.
He smiled approvingly at her stance and her first moves. "You hold it well." No fear or hesitation. Strong, steady wrists, clean strokes. "A good start. We begin."
They journeyed slowly over the next three days. He led her repeatedly through a basic drill, his soft, musical voice guiding her, gently positioning wrist, elbow, shoulder or knee at times. Her arms ached fiercely from the weight of his sword, but very soon she felt it an extension of herself, felt a wild freedom and rightness in its power as she swung and wielded it. She felt the touch of his mind, a gentle inner prompting guiding her moves at times. She should have feared this as wizardry and mind control, but strangely she did not.
Then he would draw his other sword. They parried and thrust, defended and attacked, retreated and advanced over the grasses of the Riddermark, he always controlling the pace, watchful not to let her get hurt, their sparring less a duel than a dance.
They sat at night by the light of the stars and a new moon, talking as she nibbled the wafer, not wishing to draw attention with a fire.
"Were you born beyond the sea in Elvenhome?"
"Yes." And he told of a time before sun and moon were born, when he had dwelled in the light of two trees. He told of two journeys to Middle Earth, one over ice, the other over sea. The music of the great ocean, which she had never seen, was in his voice, and she carried ever after in her mind, unfading, the image of that vast, restless expanse of water, and of two trees, silver and gold, that were no more.
"You must surely miss your home."
"That I do. But the time draws near for my return. My purpose here is almost done."
The next morning, she woke as the first rays of the sun broke over the eastern horizon, and saw him standing by Asfaloth with his back to her, changing his tunic. Across the ripple of muscles on his back, she saw the pale lines of many terrible scars criss-crossing his flesh. The illusion of invincibility she had cherished of him from two battles suddenly evaporated. She felt a lump in her throat.
Later, she asked as they rode, "You said elves can perish and live again. How can that be?"
"Elves are not as men are. We are tied to this world and cannot leave it, even if we die, but are reborn. As I have once."
She felt now familiar enough with him to ask the question she had wondered over since they first met. "How died you in your first life?"
"My city was destroyed, and I was slain as we fled from it."
He said no more, and she turned her head to look at him.
"I am sorry. It pains you to recall."
"No. I have recalled it too many times." His smile for the first time was wry. "There was a fire demon seeking to block the way of escape. I fought it. We slew each other. That was all."
And unlike other times, when he would spontaneously break into song and tell her a tale of heroes and deeds tragic and glorious, that was all he would say of his feat. He fixed his blue eyes on the horizon ahead and was silent.
They had met no more orcs since that second band. That afternoon, Glorfindel said, "There are six riders of your people in the distance, coming our way." She stared where he stared, but saw nothing.
He swung himself and her down from the saddle. She turned to look at him in surprise.
"I take my leave of you here, young one."
"Why stop we here? Let us ride to meet them. Come you to the East-Mark, and stay to taste our hospitality. Allow my brother and me to repay you in what small ways we can for your great service and kindness."
"Nay. I must return north to my people. Do not forget what you have learned."
And her heart was suddenly overcome with impending loss. "I shall not forget."
"Fare you well, Éowyn daughter of Éomund." He stooped to kiss her cheek, but she angled her head so his lips met her mouth instead. He paused, but he betrayed no surprise and did not pull the warmth and softness of his lips away from hers. His eyes glittered gravely and looked into hers when at last they parted. Her young grey eyes were wide with shock and wonder at what she had done.
"I am sorry," she said in a low, quiet voice.
"Do not be."
When she hesitantly leaned forward and tilted her face up again, he met her halfway. That kiss had all the light and warmth of summer in it, the sweetness of a young maid's first dream of love, and the magic of far Elvenesse. He kissed her without haste, allowing them both to enjoy the deep, tender exploration of each other's mouth that sent a hot flush all through her body and made her head light and giddy. She felt herself overcome in all her senses. Along with the moist warmth and pressure and sweetness of his mouth, there was his scent, fresh as rain, fragrant as a sun-kissed meadow, there was the music of the sea in her ears, and clouds of shimmering rainbow light against her closed eyes. She was dazed when he gently drew away.
"They are here, Éowyn. Go to them," she heard him softly say.
She opened her eyes and saw through a clearing rainbow mist, six riders small on the horizon, armour glinting in the sunlight, fair flaxen locks and braids gleaming.
When she looked around, her elf warrior and his horse were gone. She turned and stared out across the empty plain, and saw them swiftly riding away, west and north, shining white and gold in the light of the afternoon sun.