His mind was in turmoil, completely stunned, waves of recognition and struggles crashing inside his skull. As Elanor pulled him out of the institute, he allowed her to lead the way, numb to the overturned world that surrounded them. That wretched place… seeing them treat Elya with such violence was painful, her waves of anguish strong enough to eat at his defences. But her terror, as she looked him in the eye and opened an Osanwë connection, had been painful.
The, she shouted a name in his mind, and broke him entirely.
Maitimo Nelyafinwë ! Maedhros !
An ally, an enemy, a kinslayer. A powerhouse, in his own right, especially after his right arm was cleaved, and his soul tortured by Morgoth. An elf that could fight against the forces of Melkor with all his might, then turn upon them to complete the oath and retrieve the Silmaril. Valiant, courageous, cunning, able of the best and the worst altogether.
There had been rumours – snarky sayings - in the past, of all-encompassing love between Maedhros and his cousin Fingon that prevented either of them to seek female company. The type of love that pushed Fingon to brave Melkor and set his cousin free from his hold, an heroic deed his people would sing and praise for millenia.
Laurë should have known better than believe in such tales, but they had suited him well, if only to disparage the doomed house of Fëanor and their single-minded goal; to retrieve the Silmarils from Morgoth, at any cost, even that of their kin.
And Turgon, whom he had followed blindly to the very end, had been their most adamant distracters. Now that the King had died, and joined the halls of Mandos with most of Gondolin at his suite in a show of pride and stubbornness, Laurëfindelë found himself at a quandary regarding the kinslayers. Perhaps had dearest Turukáno been misled in his ways and opinions after the death of his wife in the Helcaraxë. All of them, suffering from the icy winds and the biting cold, had blamed those damned Fëanarions for their plight. Mayhap they should have looked at their own motivations for that doomed endeavour.
For hundreds of years, the name of Fëanor amongst the noldorin host was shamed, and filled with hate, disgust, and sometimes no little awe. For despite their evil deeds, the seven sons of Fëanor had defied Morgoth himself alongside their sire. And the spirit of fire himself Arda had died in the assault, dissolving in a pile of ash under the weight of his too bright, burning feä.
His eldest son – Maedhros - taken by the enemy for thirty long years of torture. Laurëfindelë shuddered. How had the elf even survived such a plight ? Kinslayer or not, no one deserved such a treatment. Laurëfindelë wasn't surprised that Maedhros' marriage had been kept a secret, and his daughter hidden away. But the very idea of it baffled him.
And Elya…
Firstborn of Fëanor's firstborn, the greatest craftsman or Arda. Suddenly, Elya's past time, the false gems scattered in that prison of a room made much more sense; somehow, she had inherited the skill of jewel crafting from her paternal line. And Elanor's fiery mane, a trait she shared with her mother, came directly from Maedhros' own mother: Nerdanel.
That Elya would master the art of speaking in minds was proof enough that she came from a prominent family. Only the most powerful elves could communicate thus.
Mulling over the sombre destiny of the sons of Feänor, Laurëfindelë opened the door to climb in the car when a body collided with his. By instinct, the elf embraced Elanor's shaking frame, wondering when physical contact had become so easy between them that touching her brought him solace. But such was the way of humans, he supposed. Except that Elanor was a peredhil, just like little Eärendil, a child he was sworn to protect.
Lost, Laurëfindelë lowered his head above Elanor's mane of red hair, squeezing her small frame as she sniffled against his shirt. If the scene he'd just witnessed had been violent, to him, he couldn't imagine how heart wrenching this was to her. He couldn't imagine seeing his own mother treated that way; thank the Vala, she was safe and sound in Valinorë. Taking a deep breath, Laurëfindelë found his body relaxing at the whiff of Elanor's unique fragrance. Then he drew circles over her back, gently, until she quieted in his arms and pushed away.
"Sorry," she sniffled again, wiping her eyes shamefully and rounding her car. "I need to get out of here. Out of town. Somewhere…"
Pure.
Laurëfindelë only nodded; he, too, needed some fresh air to process the information he'd just been handed. Beyond Elanor's surprising ancestry – no one, in Gondolin, knew that Maedhros had taken a wife, especially in the Neyar clan – loomed a nagging mystery. Who had provided safe passage for Elya ? When ? Maedhros's capture and release occurred nearly five centuries prior to Gondolin's attack.
How was it even possible ? If Elya aged like a human, she couldn't be more than fifty years old. Added to the five, maybe, she'd spent in middle earth as an elfling, the times did not concur. At all. How long had passed since his own de… demise ? How did Eärendil fare ? Idril, Tuor, the rest of his house ? What had become of them ? Had they retaken Gondolin ? No, it was impossible; the hidden city wasn't defensible once discovered.
Elanor drove in silence as he mulled over his thoughts; he felt every layer of human technology fade - like a blanket left behind - until the cottage was in view. Then, she took off walking in the woods. He followed, noticing that her even and sure-footed gait that betrayed her origins. Yet, Elanor kept the pace light, mindful of his healing body. Minutes, hours passed in silence, the only sounds those of the forest at the beginning of summer. A breeze in the leaves, rustling of animals and birds chirping above his head.
Eventually they came to a clearing where a few rounded rocks peeked over an ocean of wild flowers and tall grass. Elanor sat down upon a boulder and set her head in her hands with a heavy sigh. He folded his tall frame upon a rock and breathed, trying to ease the ache in the muscles of his flank. His skin felt too tight, his power strained, body weak. Would he ever return to full strength?
Leaving those considerations behind, the elf grounded himself and slid a glance at Elanor. The young woman seemed deceptively calm, but he could feel the turmoil of her soul, the agitation embedded in her aura.
"So you're an elf," she eventually said.
It took barely a nod for Elanor to spring to her feet. Then, she started pacing.
"You…" Her hands shuffled with something, and she frowned. He waited. Another round of pacing until the grass screamed under her feet and begged for her to find another path. Elanor whirled around. "What is an elf anyway ? Elves are Norse myths, they don't exist !"
"I exist," he responded regally, authority laced in his voice, willing for her to see the truth. The young woman froze in her tracks and returned to her boulder, gripping the jeans that clung to her thighs.
"Explain."
A blond eyebrow lifted, daring her to challenge him further; Laurefindelë took no orders save for the King. No one but her could have spoken thus and got away with it. Melkor himself would have met a sneer. Yet, he answered all the same, because Elanor needed him to. Because her entire family had been uprooted and cast in a degraded world that sapped at the greatest gift the Vala had granted their firstborn; their light.
He started explaining the differences between elves and humans, choosing to dwell on the physical side - the greater stamina of elves, their agility, their ability to suppress weight when needed - and finishing with their long, long life tied to Arda's fate. There would be time, later, to speak of feä and bonding.
Elanor digested that last bit with eyes wide with wonder.
"Immortality," she breathed. "This is what my mother meant. I thought it was just another bout of psychosis."
Laurëfindelë's countenance darkened. During the wars with Melkor, he'd witnessed many elves descending into madness, too scarred by the horrors they had witnessed to endure it. Most faded, in the span of decades, seconded by their loved ones until their light was snuffed entirely. He dearly hoped the halls of Mandos provided relief for those poor Feä.
But here, their mind healers – psychiatrist – had no notion of light. They administered drugs, thinking of brains like machines, forgetting that a body also held a spirit, wounded by life. What else could become of Elya, an elf with incredible extra sensorial abilities, in a world that attacked her at every turn ?
Is it the path that awaits Elanor as well ?
How about him ? How long would it take ? Already, he felt the toll taken upon his soul. Yet, the light grew stronger every day. Could his status, as Calaquendi, save him from the madness ? Would it save Elanor if he remained by her side ? To wither and die… but in a sane mind.
"Laurë ?"
The elf blinked, troubled eyes returning to an equally troubled face.
"It is not immortality," he denied, launching into explanations of the halls of Mandos. All the while, Elanor remained silent, processing information as he struggled to give them. Things that were so obvious, to him, that he had overlooked mentioning. And though his fluency in English still left to be desired, he could still instil the most important notions of elf lore.
"I… er…"
She hesitated, but at least, she wasn't looking at him with defiance or suspicion; hope unfurled in his heart. After the first time, he was wary of Elanor's reactions. Granted, given those horrible alien movies, he understood her fright when she had discovered he came from another world. But this… this was different altogether.
"How old are you ?"
She had asked the very same question in the hospital, scoffing at his answer, thinking he had misunderstood her. Because the very notion of someone living thousands of years was impossible. But now…
"Seven thousand, a little more. I don't count."
Hazel eyes widened, searching his face. He knew she was searching for signs of age.
"You were born before the Christ," she breathed in awe. "Before the first Olympic games, the pyramids. You came into the world when writing was invented."
Little did she know he would probably not last more than a few more decades here. Eventually, her shoulders seemed to relax and a new light flickered in her eyes, one he knew well; curiosity. Understanding. The look of a linguist that sunk its teeth in a new dialect.
"That's how you know so many things," she told him. "How you learn so fast. "
Elanor had puzzled over his abilities to heal, but also his talent for leaning languages, games, for drawing and cooking amongst other sings. For a human in his twenties, that set of skills would have sounded preposterous. He saw the moment the puzzle pieces slid into place in her mind, and he gave her a wary smile.
"Perhaps."
She returned his smile with one of her own, and he found his heart hammering faster at the gentle expression. Then, slowly, she approached and knelt before him. Her fingers grazed his temple before she retreated, her irises captivating in the evening light. How strange, he thought, to be so helplessly trapped in another's eyes.
"That's why your gaze always feels so ageless."
If he did not understand her phrasing, Laurë could easily discern the meaning. He ignored if Elanor was aware that her aura was still caressing his, even though her body remained at a more respectable distance. Very few elves dared intruding that way, and he wondered, for a second, if the peaceful feeling came from her, or the sensation altogether.
Even Echtelion, whose touches were the most frequent, always reigned in his aura. Except when he played the flute… then, all bets were off, and half of Gondolin basked in his talent.
Echtelion. The mere thought of him sickened him. Cut down one too many times, and drowned in the fountain, symbol of his house. Damn Melko and his goons of darkness !
"And you will never die ?"
Stricken, Laurë took a moment to rein in his anguish at the idea of all his comrades, dead, when they should have enjoyed immortality. He, who shunned this world for being corrupted, was reminded how middle earth suffered under the dark Vala's reign. Was Beleriand so plagued by Morgoth that it could not be saved ? Had they sinned, out of pride, when crossing the Helcaraxë, hoping for greener pastures, for their own dominion ?
Many of them lamented the loss of Valinorë, of its simplicity and peace. Laurëfindelë was one of them, becoming a warrior out of necessity. Head of his house because his own father had refused to defy the Vala. Loyalty to King Turgon had swayed his decision to follow the exile.
The caress returned, and with it, a warm hand to encompass his fingers. She always knew when he struggled. "I'm sorry, this was thoughtless of me," she breathed, features twisted in regret.
"We can be killed," he admitted, swallowing the lump in his throat. "The Quendi, we have same fate as Arda. We pray her, and she … feeds us."
"Nurture you ?" Elanor offered.
He nodded his assent. Yes, nurture was a better word than feed, for Arda's energy also kept them sane, connected, and bright. It was always there, the conscience of the earth beneath their feet, or its presence in the air. Every corruption of the ground, every desecration was a slight against Arda.
"A symbiosis," Elanor concluded. "So what fate awaits you here ?"
Nailed it.
"I will age. Like your mother. I will…"
A sharp intake of breath came with her realisation. "Die ?"
And perhaps not so gracefully, given how warped this world was. He kept carefully silent his mental state; Elanor's cottage protected him from going utterly nuts or paranoid, but only because of his inner light. She, on the other hand… wasn't done with her inquiries yet. He understood; when Finrod Felagund had discovered dwarves and men in midde earth, they had been just as curious about the second born and children or Aulë.
"This place makes you mortal," she stated, and something sorrowful shifted in her eyes. The awareness that he should have remained untouchable, ageless. The realisation of his loss. Mindful not to show his own emotions lest they hurt her, Laurë only nodded his assent. Time would bring him perspective and acceptance, perhaps.
"Is there anything we can do ? To sustain you ?"
What an incredible heart. Elanor had just been revealed the reasons of her family's slow descent into madness, but all she cared about was his well-being. He was no stranger to the courage of men – Tuor had the favour of Ulmo after all - but her kindness touched him deeply.
"Your home. It helps."
It won't save me. Elanor's features fell, and she rolled backwards to settle, cross legged, upon the grass. Grounding herself without realising. He saw her chest rise and fall in deep, long breaths. Behind her, the sun dipped, setting fire to her hair as shadows extended in the forest but for their oasis of blue sky. And, in the midst of that fiery halo danced an astonishing pair of eyes, those of a peredhel displaced from home.
"This is why I chose this place. I felt like it sustained me when cities drain me."
"Là."
What else to say to someone who felt, if not as acutely, how painful human dwellings were to his Feä. As his awareness extended to the north, seeking the Rollright Stones she had mentioned the other night, Elanor shook her head and laughed depreciatively.
"An elf," she snorted. "An elvish lord. And here I thought we had some things in common, but you're…"
"Elanor," he cut her, not harshly, but demandingly. "I am me. The Laurëfindelë you know. Nothing changed."
Nothing. Except if he reached Arda after centuries of absence. What would Beleriand look like ? Would Melkor be defeated or victorious ? How strange it would be, for people, to see Laurëfindelë return, the lord of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, in a world that had evolved and accepted his death. Would Quenya still be banned from the shores of middle earth ?
His eyes suddenly widened at the thought.
"But… my name. I think my people will call me Glorfindel now."
Elanor looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. "What ?"
Explaining why King Thingol banned Quenya from middle earth would raise too many questions. Especially about the kinslaying and her grandfather's responsibility; had yet to think upon it to know, exactly, how to present her family's history without prejudice. That Nelya spoke Quenya to her daughter was a testimony to her loyalty to Maitimo, or Maedhros as they called him in Sindarin. She should, by all means, have been a Sindarin speaker given she never travelled to Valinórë.
In the light of those revelations, he chose to keep things as simple as possible.
"I speak Quenya, from Valinórë. But middle earth speak Sindarin. My name, in Sindarin, is Glorfindel."
"Oh." The significance sunk in easily; Elanor was a linguist, after all. Taken aback, the young woman eyed him for a moment.
"So… Glorfindel ?"
Wondering what she was asking, he gave her an inquisitive look. Elanor stood, the grace of her mother's race imbued in her movements, and offered her hand to shake.
"I am pleased to meet you, Glorfindel of the Golden Flower."
An earnest light shone in her eyes; a greeting. A welcome. The acceptance of what he was, who he was, without secrets kept between them. His heart soared, hope renewed; he unfolded his long limbs and stood before her, finding her suddenly very small next to his towering frame. Reaching out, he delicately picked her hand and, in a fit of mischievousness, bowed over it like he'd seen in the Pride and Prejudice series.
"Enchanté, miss Elanor," he responded with a smirk.
The young woman retrieved her hand, a little dazed, and seriousness returned to his countenance as his fist now settled upon his heart in the traditional elvish greeting.
"Elen síla lúmenn' omentielvo," he stated, knowing Elanor would understand. When his head rose to meet her gaze again, he found a serene expression on her face. Then, on a whim, she reached for his hand and tugged.
"Come, my lord, let us feast together. There are tomatoes in the garden, a meal fit for the highest nobility."
His laugh came forth without constraints, light and carefree as he followed her down the path. Talks of doom, madness and duplicitous Gods would wait as, for now, he basked in that little sliver of peace.