Our Old Shipwrecked Days by Agelast

Elrond awoke to see Erestor at the foot of his bed, dripping rain-water into the bedsheets. Still half-asleep, he started to reached for the knife under his pillow and realized, too late, that in these ostensibly peaceful times, he no longer kept one there.

“What do you want?” he said, glaring at Erestor, who only shrugged impassively.

“There’s talk of a shipwreck, I thought you might want to see.” Erestor was one of Gil-galad’s men with whom Elrond shared but a slight acquaintance. He was regarded as something of a wit, by the court, and Elrond had once been the butt of his jokes. This did nothing to endear him to Elrond.

He did not know how Erestor had gotten into his rooms.

“Are there any survivors?” Elrond asked, tumbling out of bed. He flung a robe hastily over himself and pulled a cloak over that. Winters on the coast were milder than elsewhere, but a chill wind and the surf would go ill for his efforts.

“It is … odd,” Erestor admitted as they headed out of Elrond’s rooms, and down the passage below. The doors were thrown open and already, many people with lit torches seemed to be heading for the beach. Neither Gil-galad nor Círdan were present; they had been called away to witness the first begetting day of Galadriel’s child -- her first.

Elrond had been, more or less, left in charge.

The moon lay hidden by a bank of silver clouds and the wind whipped at Elrond’s cloak. The rain had cleared, leaving only puddles in its wake. They followed the line of torches down the steep cliffside to the beach. As Elrond was climbing down, he looked up to Erestor, puzzled by the other’s silence.

“Is it not a Númenórean vessel, then?” He had been prepared to see, perhaps, one of his brother’s kin among the wreckage, and fight the sea on their behalf. But Erestor only shook his head.

“See for yourself.”

Elrond turned to look. At the same time, the moon came out of hiding and bleached the rocky shore white and silver. Elrond gaped at the wreck before him, the moonlight making clear what the flickering torches could not. Before him was a wreck of a swan-ship, unmistakably of Telerin design.

There were some differences between the swan-ships that Elrond had seen -- in Maglor’s old books, in his own imaginings -- and this one. There were two lamp-stones welded to its eyes, dimming now against the moon-light. Its hull had been torn out and one of its wings was missing. Elrond looked away, grieved -- it was as if he was a witness to the death of a living thing.

He knew that there were jagged reefs just beyond the coast, that was probably the reason for the wreck. Though there was a lighthouse perched on the cliffside behind them, the night before had been foggy, and wracked with storms. And, so disaster had fallen.

It was smaller, too, than the large ships that Maglor, in his perfect hand, had sketched out for young Elrond, suitable not for a fleet of fishermen or host of warriors, but rather one person -- or two. Cautiously, he touched it, a thing from another world. It felt -- cool and smooth against his hands, almost seductively so.

“It was not manned?” Elrond asked one of the men who held aloft a torch.

Erestor spoken up instead, saying, “There is a bedroll and some provisions.”

“But no one is there, my Lord,” said the one Elrond had original directed his answer to, which earned him a cool look from Erestor. Elrond sighed inwardly, and cursed the day even a modicrum of power came his way. Not even here would he be able to escape this constant jockeying? More than ever, he preferred the retreat of the Houses of Healing.

Elrond pushed away from the ship with a sigh. “Fan out,” he said, “perhaps our visitor lies hurt somewhere close. There are many hidden places here, where he could have washed ashore.”

“If he is still alive,” Erestor said, with a sardonic smile.

“I think so,” Elrond said. “I do not think the Valar would send a dead messenger.”

A hush settled over the rest.

Elrond knew that he was taking a guess -- not a wild one, but still, just a guess. But once spoken, his words seemed to take on the guise and the importance of fact. The group spoke low and some nodded, casting suspicious looks at the water. They dispersed without another word.

To Elrond’s annoyance, Erestor stuck by him as he searched, saying nothing more. He had acquired a torch for the task, which Elrond was grateful for -- it was more a courtesy for himself, with less-than-perfect Elven vision, than it was for Erestor, who did not need it going forward.

They had walked almost a mile from the wreck when they came upon a small cave that opened up to the sea. Elrond felt a small tremor of trepidation looking into its murky depths. He would not have ventured in at all, except that he spotted a piece of wood, looking suspiciously like a swan’s wing sticking up in the sand.

“After you,” Erestor said, and then added, “my Lord.”

Elrond stepped forward and glanced over his shoulder at Erestor, who looked back at him calmly. “Erestor, you do not like me, I think.”

“On the contrary, my Lord, I greatly admire and respect you. Not many would make such gains in the High-King’s court -- and care so little about it.”

Elrond sighed. That was the bone of contention between Gil-galad and him. This last summer, he had refused to be named Gil-galad’s heir and the king had taken it ill. It was not that Elrond disliked Gil-galad -- not at all! But the thought of ever being a king made Elrond feel sick with anxiety -- it was not something he would choose at all. That had been his brother’s choice, not his.

Elrond supposed that Erestor, like the rest of the court, thought that he was but a foolish brat, in need of a good-talking to, or else a swift kick in the rear. Perhaps he was even right…

But Elrond had no more time to think of this, however, because up ahead, he heard a low moan and a faint splash.

They found him behind a large rock, on the wet, pebble-strewn ground. He was an Elf, a Vanya by the look of it -- his long, golden hair was in tangles around him. Elrond approached him quickly began to check for injuries. All the while the Vanya was still unconscious, his eyes moving under his lids. He jerked when Elrond touched his right arm and Elrond frowned, fearing a break.

"I think we can move him," Elrond said to Erestor, who stooped over them and shone a light on the Vanya's face. Now several things happened at once. First, the Vanya stirred and tried to sit up, using the front of Elrond's cloak as leverage. He also shouted in Elrond's face, in funny-sounding Quenya, “Where is Eärendil?”

Erestor, quicker than a thought, fell upon the injured man and said, in a voice both soothing and loud, “Do not worry, my lord. He is safe. They are all safe!”

The Vanya relaxed for a moment, letting go of Elrond’s cloak. He blinked, slowly, at them and smiled. In health, Elrond thought distantly, it would be a dazzling thing to behold. “Well, chaps,” the Vanya said, “here I am.” And then he fainted dead away.

It was not an easy task to carry him across the beach -- carefully enough not to jar his arm, but somehow Elrond and Erestor managed it before the sun rose over the windswept shore.

They brought him to the Houses of Healing, which was only a few steps from the beach, so that the patients could hear the sound of the sea and be at ease. The healer on-duty was Sílaer, who was Elrond’s chief instructors. A small, compact woman, one of Círdan’s kin, she took in the scene in one glance and gave the orders to rouse the other healers. Soon, a crowd gathered around them, and Elrond and Erestor were relieved of their burden. Elrond followed them to the nearest room, glancing back only once to see Erestor hovering near the main doors, unsure as what to do.

It was remarkable then, to see such a change in him, Erestor who was so confident in court, looking so lost within the sick ward. Some Elves, Elrond knew, could never be wholly at ease in places like this -- where immortality and mortality intersected. It did not seem quite right, Elrond supposed, to them. He took a step away -- he knew better than to worry over his patient now -- and went to Erestor.

“Thank you for your help,” Elrond said with a small smile.

Erestor nodded slowly and said, “I must see to it that the king knows of our guest.”

Elrond frowned, but knew he could not protest. “That would be wise.”

“Do you know who he is?” Erestor looked at him, his gaze sharp.

Awkwardly, Elrond said, “He was concerned for my father -- and his hair -- I cannot help but assume…”

“Glorfindel. And sent straight from Mandos.” Erestor paused before continuing, “What an honor.”

And Elrond’s sense of honor prickled at the mocking note in Erestor’s voice. Repressively, he said, “We cannot know for certain, until one of us has had the chance to speak to him.”

“And that I will leave to you,” Erestor said, and left.

Elrond did not stop him this time.

Instead, he went back to the room where Glorfindel was taken -- if it was Glorfindel, that was -- and asked Sílaer what her opinion on the matter was.

She was optimistic -- “He almost drowned before you got to him -- I would think that the piece of wood must have knocked him out of the boat during the storm. But other than that bruise on his arm, he is certainly hale and will recover fully.”

Elrond nodded and then frowned. He did not quite know if he should tell Sílaer who this man was. Was it his place to say? Finally, when the silence between them grew too long, Elrond said, “I saw his ship -- boat, really -- it is… unique.”

“So I have heard. A visitor from Valinor! And the world is not yet aflame, I am happy to report. What is this about, Elrond?”

Elrond said, quite honestly, that he did not know. Sílaer patted his shoulder and told him to rest, but instead, he kept busy the rest of the night. He was still in training, after all, and not considered being above emptying a chamber pot or two, no matter how high his birth. Elrond found this to be a highly satisfactory turn of events. No one here was over-awed at him nor did they try to curry his favor. Here, he was simply a student, like the rest.

Between going to the dispensary to get a fresh supply of athelas -- it was amazing how useful that herb was!-- Elrond wracked his brain over what he knew about Glorfindel. In truth, he did not know much. At Sirion, Elros and he had a nurse named Meleth -- who had been also been their father’s nurse, and hailed from Gondolin. She was very willing to regale the two boys of stories of her former home -- except, naturally, of its last day.

She was very fond of describing Lord Egalmoth’s fabulous outfits to her disbelieving charges, or sing to them such songs as Ecthelion of the Fountain had composed.

On the subject of Glorfindel, however, the gregarious Meleth was mostly silent. She would greet all inquiries about him with a sad smile and change the subject. The pain of his passing, Elrond knew, was shared by all of the surviving Gondolindrim -- his sacrifice had taken on a life of its own, separate even from all the the horror and death that had come before.

But now Elrond had a chance to see the man himself!

After all his tasks were done, Elrond stole quietly into the room where Glorfindel slept. All the other healers had departed and the still form on the bed did not stir. Elrond pushed a chair closer to the bed and sat down.

Tiredness crept upon Elrond like a cat, rubbing its head against his shoulders and back, which had begun to ache. He decided that he would only rest his eyes for a moment -- he knew Glorfindel could wake any moment -- Elrond yawned, largely -- he must be ready -- and he was asleep.

Elrond dreamt an old, familiar dream, one that he thought must have been once based on a memory. The sun was bright in his dream, so bright that it hurt to look at, and so he pressed his eyes closed and turned his head away. Someone was calling his name and caught him -- Elrond gasped as he felt himself be lifted and whirled around and embraced. He caught the smell of the sea that always accompanied his father’s wake -- and salt and wind, and a hint of sawdust that always made his nose ache to sneeze.

Elrond woke with his father’s name on his lips, as the late-morning sun spilled across the room.

There was a bevy of healers present, changing bandages and taking away a meal. They took care to be quiet, but Elrond felt guilty, immediately, for getting in their way. He rose from his chair, but he was stopped from leaving by one of the healers, who handed him a tray of food and commanded him, sternly, to eat.

He sat down and ate. It was not a bad meal, though someone had forgotten to add a little salt to the porridge again. The apple, a sweet red specimen from farther inland, crunched in his mouth very satisfyingly, however.

In between bites of apple, Elrond realized that he was being observed.

Glorfindel was looking at him curiously. Neither of them spoke.

In the warm light of morning, Elrond was not sure why he had thought Glorfindel was a Vanya at all. Yes, his hair was the color of gold, but he had a face of Noldo, with sharply cut features, a nose as curved like a hawk’s, and with challenging, grey eyes that were only a little amused.

He reminded Elrond, disconcertingly, of Lady Galadriel.

They shared the same bright, penetrating sort of stare that was impossible to escape. Elrond decided then that he would not attempt to do so. Instead he rose with as much dignity as he could -- his neck felt stiff and wrong -- and pushed the chair closer to the bed.

After checking to see that the patient’s arm had been rebandaged well, Elrond looked at him inquiringly and said, “Well?”

Glorfindel answered, in good, if antiquated Sindarin, “Well what?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I almost drowned. Where am I?”

“At the king’s palace -- well, near it, anyway, in Lindon. Who are you?”

“Which king?”

“Ereinion Gil-galad, High-King of the Noldor, son of Orodreth, the late king of Nargothrond,” Elrond said. “Pardon me, my lord, but the Valar sent you here woefully unprepared.”

Glorfindel opened his mouth and closed it again. He said slowly,“It’s as much my fault as theirs, I suppose…”

“And your name?” Elrond said, feeling that he ought to know.

“Laurefindil,” was the reply, in crisp Quenya. Maglor had the same way of speaking, Elrond remembered suddenly. “Glorfindel,” he added, a tad sheepishly.

Elrond nodded, and replied back in Sindarin, “Pleased to meet you. I am Elrond.”

Glorfindel gave him an expectant look.

In a rush, Elrond finished quickly, “The son of Eärendil, but that isn’t important right now because --”

“Eärendil? You are his son?”

“Yes.”

“Eärendil had a child, and that child was you?”

“My mother, Elwing, did, actually,” Elrond said irritably, “two of them.”

“Lord Glorfindel, please forgive young Lord Elrond’s eagerness -- he means well,” said a familiar voice from behind Elrond. He could not quite suppress a groan, before he turned and glared at Erestor.

“Yes, Erestor, it is amazing that you should know the very moment I that need you. Lord Glorfindel, let me introduce you to Erestor, one of the king’s men,” Elrond said. He wanted to continue, but could not. He realized that he knew precious little about Erestor besides the things he had already stated.

Erestor had already been a fixture at court by the time Elrond had arrived there and besides the development of a sort of cordial enmity between them, there did not seem to be much else to offer.

So he coughed to hide his embarrassment.

Erestor bowed in Glorfindel’s direction, which the latter dismissed with an tolerant wave.

Erestor began, in a very humble voice, “I am afraid my biography is lacking, my lord, especially compared to the two of you. I was born in Lindon after the war, my father was the architect for this castle, my mother made pots, and together they have sailed to Valinor to enjoy their retirement. I am not one of the king’s councillors, I am merely … useful to him. At times.”

“So, a spy then. How lovely,” Glorfindel said, beaming.

“I prefer the term ‘information-gatherer’,” Erestor said.

“They used to call them spies in my day.”

“Well, you are very old,” Erestor said, stepping towards Glorfindel with a meaningful look in his eye.

“And should be resting,” Elrond said, grabbing Erestor’s arm and pushing him out of Glorfindel’s room. “I’ll be with you shortly,” he called back to Glorfindel before closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” he hissed at Erestor, poking a finger at Erestor’s chest.

“He’s the one who accused me of being a spy!” Erestor protested.

“Well, aren’t you? I mean, I always assumed…”

“But how does he know that?”

Elrond remembered Glorfindel’s gaze, bright, penetrating and -- now that he thought about it, very shrewd. Of course he was not the sort to miss anything. “Well,” Elrond said, “you can’t come in as smug as you like and not think --”

“I am not smug, you are smug --”

“What are you two doing?” Sílaer said, coming upon them with her arms full of bandages. “Elrond! I am disappointed to see you squabbling with Erestor like a couple of schoolboys.”

Guiltily, Elrond took her bandages from her and followed her down the hall to where they were needed. He trained his features to be as calm and kindly as Sílaer’s usually was, but when he passed Erestor, he could not help but pull a face.

Elrond was too far away to hear Erestor laugh, or so he told himself later.

*

As was often the case, trouble seemed to come all at once. There was an accident in the shipyards, and a young man, a maker of figure-heads, had his hand crushed. Many tense days followed as Sílaer and Elrond worked to save it. In the end, they managed it, but barely, but the road to recovery would be a painful one, and slow. Then, a shipload of Númenóreans came in, with various ailments to their name -- scurvy, mostly.

And so Elrond came to the small medical library at the end of the day exhausted and smelling strongly of limes. He wished for some privacy and quiet, and seeing that the library was empty, it seemed that he would get his wish. He took a book from the stacks and settled down to read.

It was then he was interrupted by a now-familiar voice.

“Elrond, is it? May I sit?” Glorfindel said and he slid into the wooden bench next to Elrond. Elrond had only time to give a bare nod before he turned his attention back to his book. Glorfindel began to drum his fingers on the table-top. The sound he made was unpardonably loud in the hushed quiet of the library.

Elrond hadn’t read a single word from his book of herblore.

This went on for several moments before Elrond conceded defeat and put his book down.

“Most patients do not come to the library,” he said. “Although there are some who do, and they are the ones that you must be careful about. They read a set of symptoms that match theirs and suddenly they are convinced that they are stricken with the most awful diseases and will die immediately.”

“Oh yes, that reminds me, do you think I might have a flux of the humors?”

Elrond considered it for a moment. “Unlikely. The theory of humors went out with High King Fingon, I’m afraid.”

“My mistake.” Glorfindel look over to the book that Elrond had been reading. It was open to an illustration of rosin rose, though it was very well done. The golds and greens still seemed bright, though the age of the book was apparent.

“But how do you think I’m doing?” Glorfindel said.

“I think you are doing very admirably. In fact, you are in the pink of health, so much so that your bed has been given up to someone who has more need of it --”

“Yes. And I have received some rooms in the palace -- down the hall from yours, I gather. But I am told you are rarely there.”

Elrond raised his eyebrows and wondered when Glorfindel had had the time to inquire about him. Carefully he admitted, “I sleep here most days. But I shouldn’t worry about your lack of companions. You are already very popular with the court.”

Indeed, by now, everyone was his friend, including the king, who had returned to Lindon in precipitate haste.

In the week following Glorfindel’s rescue, Elrond had been summoned to tell the king what had happened, he saw Erestor skulking in the background, having already made his statement. Elrond, annoyed that they hadn’t gone in together, ignored him and kept his whole attention to the king -- and to Glorfindel.

Glorfindel had spoken only a few times during his audience with the king, but at the end of it, the entire court was convinced of his especial significance.

Gravely, Glorfindel explained to them that the Valar predicted dark times ahead for the peoples of Middle-earth. There had been a great furor over this; most thought that the dark times had finally passed, for Eru’s sake. But in the end, Glorfindel’s bright vivacity and charm was enough to make his (rather vague) message palatable for most.

Elrond persisted still, saying, “I have heard there is a line every morning for people who are eager to spar with you --”

Glorfindel looked pained. “Do you not spar?”

Drily, Elrond said, “Not unless I have to.”

“But you should -- dangerous times and all. Come out tomorrow, I’ll put you at the head of the line.”

“Tempting, but,” Elrond hesitated. “But you were a patient of mine and it would be …”
He blushed.

Glorfindel smiled. “Be at ease, son of Eärendil! I am not proposing marriage -- not yet --”

“No, of course not,” Elrond said, horribly embarrassed. How stupid he was to suppose that -- well, Glorfindel of all people -- he knew Elrond’s father as a child, for Eru’s sake, and he was a hero out of legend…

Glorfindel, apparently unaware of the turmoil that he had made in Elrond’s head and heart, said, “I recognize the hand.” He flipped the pages back to see the inscription on the flyleaf. Galdor of the House of the Tree made me, it said, and Glorfindel nodded, satisfied.

Glorfindel read quietly for a while before giving the book back to Elrond. “It is amazing,” he said, “what gets saved in times like that.”

“There were not many books that survived the fall of Gondolin and then the burning of the Havens,” Elrond agreed. “I would not put the number above five or four.”

Glorfindel nodded. Then, thoughtfully, he said, “What made you choose to be a healer? I have heard that Gil-galad wished to make you his heir.”

Elrond shrugged. “When I was younger -- I thought -- well, I wished very much to make things whole. My brother and I were forever bringing home injured birds and beasts for Maglor to heal for us. But he was a bard, not a healer, and so eventually I began to try to help them myself. The camp healer advised me, but with things being the way they were… I picked up a thing or two during the war, but… I didn’t truly start learning until I came here. You should hear Sílaer talk of how I used to suture wounds! Completely wrong, according to her.”

Glorfindel’s expression softened and and the corners of his mouth rose. “She is very dedicated teacher. You are fortunate to have her.”

“And I do know it!” Elrond sighed and stood up, carefully putting the book back in its place. Glorfindel was still waiting for him when he returned. “What will you do now?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I’m not sure. I am grateful, of course, of the king’s generosity. I have nothing to repay him with.”

“No,” Elrond said with a laugh, “I meant this evening. I’m sure you’ll find some way to earn your keep otherwise. Shall I take you home?”

“No need for that,” Glorfindel said, getting up at last. He headed for the door before turning, a glint of mischief in his clear grey eyes. “Instead of going home, could you … show me around?”

Elrond felt a niggling feeling of warning in the back of his mind, the same sort of feeling he would get if Elros dared him to do something especially dangerous. He ought to say no, to laugh a little to soften his rejection. He knew that despite Glorfindel’s confidence, he was not quite ready for adventure.

Elrond ought to say no.

“Yes, all right,” Elrond said instead, walking to the door. He overtook Glorfindel easily, and noticed that Glorfindel took a few discreet sniffs of his hair. Elrond stopped dead and wondered what he should do -- was is some kind of cultural difference he was unaware of -- or perhaps Glorfindel was just strange …?

“You always smell of something different, every day that I see you -- yesterday it was lavender,” Glorfindel said, catching Elrond’s puzzled expression. “Today, it is … lemons?”

“Limes,” Elrond said. “For the scurvy treatment.”

Glorfindel nodded. Seriously, he said, “Is it strange to notice?”

“Er,” Elrond said. “It is a little flattering. Although I hope you do not happen to smell me when I’ve been doing something less pleasant than squeezing limes…”

*

“Have you thought of my proposal at all?” Gil-galad asked at dinner, some weeks later.

Elrond hmmed attentively and continued to cut his meat into ever smaller pieces.

They were having a late supper in Gil-galad’s private chambers. The king’s favorite meal, roasted beef this side of rare, with roasted carrots and parsnips, had been served by silent servants, who disappeared afterwards, until it was time for dessert. Restlessly, Elrond abandoned his meat and speared a piece of carrot. He looked over at Gil-galad, who was eating quite calmly.

That Gil-galad considered himself as something of an older brother to Elrond was neither objectionable nor inaccurate. But, really. Once the king had an idea in his head, he was as tenacious as a son of Fëanor after a Silmaril.

Not, of course, that Gil-galad, the faithful son of the late king of Nargothrond would appreciate such a comparison…

Elrond coughed into his napkin to cover his amusement at the thought of Gil-galad chasing after a Silmaril. No, that was simply in bad taste.

He said,“You know the objections people would have. I am related but matrilineally to the House of Finwë, and not all would be pleased if you declared me your heir.”

“Customs can be changed,” Gil-galad said, with an impatient wave of his hand. “My aunt is all for it. She says that your future is almost alarmingly open. It would be good to see you settled somewhere.”

“I’m just not the kingly sort,” Elrond protested. “My head’s just not made for a crown. My temples are too narrow.”

Gil-galad merely stared at him until Elrond subsided and gave him a sheepish grin.

“Elrond, cousin, believe me when I say that making you my heir is not -- it is not meant to be a punishment for you. Rather, it is to reassure my advisors that if I should die at some point, the kingdom should not simply crumble. You are of age, and of sufficient nobility -- and say if you were to marry Galadriel’s child, it would be very neat indeed --”

“She’s a baby,” Elrond said, shocked.

“In time, I mean, in time. I do not plan to die anytime soon. It is only to have them stop hounding me so much.”

“This is outrageous!”

“One can’t go from a minor princeling to the High King without having some sense of the practicalities of life, my dear.”

“I think it probably helped that everyone else died,” Elrond said, feeling rather venomous.

“Not as much as you would think,” Gil-galad said, pouring out two full glasses of wine for the both of them.

After a brief silence, Elrond said tentatively, “Ereinion, have you ever thought of -- well, marrying? It seems to me that this would be the easiest way to get an heir.”

“Easiest?” Gil-galad said, his face darkening. “Hardly that. If I were to marry, then I would be elevating some noble’s family far above everyone else. The backbiting and pressure would be enormous, unbearable.”

“But -- a wife? A companion for yourself, a queen for us? Isn’t that a good thing?” Elrond hesitated for a moment before saying, “Are you not sometimes … lonely?”

“I have never been the kind to need companionship,” Gil-galad said reflectively. “Perhaps it is selfishness, a flaw that I never could unseat, but I have never truly desired a wife. Or a lover, come to think of it.”

Elrond stared at him. “Really? Never?”

“No, not that I can recall.”

“All Elves marry, save for ill-chance or strange fates,” Elrond muttered faintly, but Gil-galad’s hearing was as sharp as a hound’s. He cocked his head, his gaze suddenly sharpening.

“And what of you, Elrond,” he said, his voice suddenly softer and infinitely more dangerous. “Is there a someone for you?”

“If there is, you would be the first to know,” Elrond said hastily, and taking a drink.

“Indeed. Well, what do you think of Glorfindel?” Gil-galad said, going back to his dinner.

Startled by the sudden change in topic, Elrond almost choked. When he was recovered, he said what came first in his head. “You will not accept his travel-scheme, will you? It is absurd. He is not yet ready.”

“I think it is a very good idea. I won’t want to be accused of hoarding the messenger from the Valar from all the Elven lands, and I know that many who are eager to speak to him.” Gil-galad took a sip of wine. “My aunt especially.”

Elrond had a brief vision of Galadriel picking apart a smoking heap of bones that had been Glorfindel and closed his eyes for a moment.

“Well,” he said grudgingly, “he cannot go alone.”

“Of course not,” Gil-galad said. “I am sending Erestor with him.”

At this point, Elrond did not bother to hide his disappointment.

Gil-galad noticed right away. “You are suddenly melancholy, cousin. Do you wish to go with them?”

“I cannot,” Elrond murmured. “I have my duties here.”

“But you would like to, isn’t that right?”

“It seems like it would be an adventure.”

“Certainly. A grand adventure. Alas for us whose duties pull us away from such things.”

Elrond gave a gloomy nod.

Gil-galad sighed. “You silly young ass. Of course you may go, if you wish. Eru knows if your healing skills will go untried with those two. Take some time off. Your studies will be here when you get back.”

“But Sílaer will skin me alive.”

“Well,” Gil-galad said dryly, “physician, heal thyself.”

Sílaer accepted the news with a resigned sigh. “Hand me that towel,” she said, which Elrond did. “I suppose you can’t avoid it?”

They were cleaning the demonstration room after a class. Elrond handed it to her and noticed, to his dismay, that there was a spot of blood on his sleeve.

“I can say no, if you want me to,” Elrond said, trying to scrub the spot out. “I know I still have much to learn.”

“No,” she sighed, “well, I mean, yes, you do, of course. But so do we all. Such is the life for the Eldar.”

Noticing Elrond’s slightly crestfallen look, she smiled. “Nevermind, Elrond. I can manage without you, you know. And besides, there are other cares in our profession than the mending of bodies. Perhaps you can take the time to help your friend Glorfindel come to terms with his new life.”

“Do you think he is … troubled?”

It seemed unlikely. Glorfindel was perhaps the most aggressively cheerful person Elrond had ever met. He certainly seemed so the times Elrond had come out, at dawn, to spar with him. And he certainly beamed whenever he found the crack in Elrond’s defenses, and let him have it.

Elrond winced, touching the still-tender spot on his side where Glorfindel’s practice sword had whacked him that morning.

But Sílaer looked thoughtful and nodded. “I think it is likely that he has more to trouble him than he will say.”

“And you think I can get the real story from him?” Elrond said, folding his arms. He tried to give Sílaer his best skeptical look, but she only laughed.

“I think you have your ways of finding out. Now come on. I must find a use for you before you go.”

It was some hours before Elrond was dismissed. Since he was leaving in the morning and had hardly packed, he made his way from the Houses of Healing to his rooms with what could be unseemly haste. In his state of extreme preoccupation, he did not notice that Erestor had been walking beside him until he had almost reached his door.

“Erestor!” Elrond said, feeling a little dismayed. “How good to see you.”

“I wished to see how you were getting on,” Erestor said with a grin. “I hear you will be traveling with us after all.”

“Gil-galad thought it would be for the best,” Elrond said cooly.

“That isn’t what I heard,” Erestor said with considerable relish. “But I, for one, will be happy to have you.”

“Why -- thank you.”

“Yes, one can’t predict the things that may crop up in outings like this. It’s good to have a person of your skills on hand.”

“That is really quite decent of you, Erestor.”

“Of course, you’ll also be able to keep an eye on Glorfindel. Isn’t that so?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Elrond said stiffly.

Before Erestor could reply, Glorfindel got out of his room and came bounding up to them. “Ah, you two! Just the people I wanted to see. Are you excited for tomorrow? I know I am. Come, let us celebrate our setting off -- I have some wine in my room.”

“No,” Elrond said firmly, and opened his door. Then, softening, he said, “I think I should get some sleep.”

“Ah, yes,” Glorfindel said, looking a little misty-eyed, “soon featherbeds will be a thing of the past. The stars await.”

“As do the rocks. It is not something I would romanticize, my lord,” Erestor said.

Glorfindel turned the full force of his smile towards him. “Erestor, you are a jewel! And right, of course. Sometimes I do get carried away. But I assure you that, after a long while of going without, sleeping under the stars, even on stony ground, is a glorious thing.”

Erestor smiled rather fixedly as Glorfindel bid them both good night and went back to his rooms. Under his breath, though Elrond could hear him, he said, “Mandos take me, but I swear that man is having us on.”

“Having you on, perhaps,” Elrond said, and ducked quickly into his room before Erestor could reply.

*

The first leg the journey passed pleasantly enough. Círdan knew of their mission before any of them needed to open their mouths. He greeted Glorfindel as a old friend -- though they had never met before -- and Glorfindel embraced him just as joyously. Elrond came away with many entertaining and potential useful stories of Gil-galad’s childhood.

Next, they headed to Eregion, riding along in a leisurely pace, with nothing much burdening them except for a pack of letters entrusted to Erestor. Elrond enjoyed watch the landscape change from town to country and then into woodlands as far as the eye could see.

Glorfindel, predictably, made for a fine traveling companion -- lively and energetic when it was time for it, and meditative and quiet in other times. He rode ahead, though of all them, it was Erestor who knew the way.

Elrond had not had much opportunity to travel until now, and indeed, he had little enough desire to do so. He had his studies in Lindon, and for the time that his brother had lived, Elrond wished to have the fastest means of communication with him and his family.

As time passed, the communications grew fewer and fewer, until the day that Elrond received a letter from Vardamir that told him that his brother was dead. It seemed incomprehensible that Elrond, who still felt as awkward as a youth at times, should have been born from the same womb as Elros, who was already fading into legend.

Thinking of Elros made his heart ache, as always, so Elrond resolved not to do it any longer, and paid more attention to the conversation Glorfindel and Erestor were having.

“... But I want to know the real story -- were you truly doomed by your hair?” Erestor was saying, presumptuous as ever.

Elrond opened his mouth to rebuke him, before closing it again. He was curious too, after all.

Glorfindel rode on, relaxed in his seat. After a long while, he said, “I’m thinking of keeping my hair short this time around.”

“Oh no!” Elrond said aloud and blushed when both turned to look at him. “I mean, of course, it is your choice.”

“I think it would be interesting to see,” Erestor said. “And of course, you’d have many imitators.”

“Apparently there’s already a line of people pestering the apothecary for hair-bleaching solutions,” Elrond said. He knew this because the said apothecary had nearly talked his ear off the other day about this exact thing.

Glorfindel frowned. “It is odd. When I was younger, I would have given up almost anything to have normal black hair like the two of you -- like my mother had. But there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”

“As for myself, I have never wished to be anything other than what I am,” Erestor said and Elrond rolled his eyes.

“What about you, Elrond?” Erestor said, apparently catching him in the act. “Is there something that you would choose to change about yourself?” They both looked at him. Glorfindel, curious, Erestor, slightly gleeful.

“I think you know the answer to that,” Elrond said.

“It is an easy choice, to be sure.”

“A choice…? What choice?” Glorfindel said, looking confused.

Elrond sighed. “I told you that I had brother, didn’t I? Well, he was as I am -- as our family was. You remember Eärendil, surely?”

“Of course.”

“Well, at the end of the war, Elros and I were given a choice. Or, rather, we were told that a choice must be made. The Valar, in their wisdom and gratitude let my brother and I decide whether we should be mortal men or Elves. I chose the Elves, my brother chose mortality. He is dead now, as are his children.”

A long silence descended among them, interrupted only by the sound of horses’ hooves. Finally, Glorfindel said, “I remember Tuor, and his father and uncle well. They were good Men, and braver, I think, than many Elves. It takes courage to sacrifice your life, knowing you have only one. I see no shame in being counted among them.”

“I know it,” Elrond said in a low voice.

“But I also do not see any wrong in your choice, Elrond,” Glorfindel said. “Perhaps after many long years, you will see the wisdom in your choice as well.”

“Is that a prophecy?” Erestor said quickly, before subsiding under the weight of Elrond’s glare.

*

Next was Eregion and Celebrimbor, who asked for measurements for Elrond’s head.

“I meant to ask for it ages ago,” he explained, frowning. He looked very much like Maglor, Elrond was surprised to find. They had the same angular kind of face and bird’s nest kind of hair. But in particular, they shared the same distracted look, of thinking very furiously, of matters far beyond their listener’s ken.

“May I ask why?” Elrond asked.

“For a circlet, of course,” Celebrimbor said, as if it was obvious. “You needn’t worry about your temples.”

“Er, about my mission,” Glorfindel began to say.

“Oh, never mind about that,” Celebrimbor said with an airy wave of his hand. He was holding a half-finished knife with the hand and Erestor, who was standing the closest to him, jumped back.

Celebrimbor continued, saying, “I think it is very good of the Valar to take an interest in Middle-earth. Better late than never, eh?”

“Certainly,” Elrond said. “Should I do anything in particular…?”

“Oh, no, stay there. Don’t move a muscle.”

*

Galadriel hadn’t been present when they were in Ost-in-Edhil, but she came to Elrond in a dream as soon as they had crossed the mountains. Thankfully, it was not one of Elrond’s more embarrassing dreams -- lately, those tended to feature Glorfindel, naked, more often than not.

But now Elrond felt her delicate touch on the edge of his consciousness, familiar and yet not, Elrond was able to let Galadriel in.

“I am many miles deep under a mountain, and likely to be here for a few more months,” she said, and indeed, she was dressed as one would be for mining, in leather overalls and protective jacket. Her remarkable hair was caught in a jeweled hair-net, studded with pearls. It was the most casual Elrond had ever seen her, but then again, he had never talked to her in a dream before.

“Forgive me, Lady Galadriel -- it is an honor,” Elrond said, and bowed. He raised his head when he felt drops of water fall hit his face. “Is it raining?”

“Concentrate,” she murmured and he did. The rain disappeared. Instead, they were sitting in a little room, quite warm and cozy, with a fire blazing in the corner. Between them stood a small table with a tea-service on it.

“Tea?” Galadriel asked, gesturing to the delicate porcelain teapot, a cup already in her other hand.

“No, thank you,” Elrond said. He wasn’t sure what the properties of dream-tea would even be.

“Your loss,” she said, pouring out a cup for herself and taking a small sip. She smiled. Elrond tried to keep still, but it was difficult even though he knew that it wasn’t really his body that wanted to move. As Galadriel finished her tea, she looked up and gave him a piercing look.

“The Valar did not send Glorfindel.”

“What?” Elrond said, springing up, and upsetting the little table. There was a loud and final crunch and Galadriel sighed deeply. Within a blink of an eye, the table was gone and so was the room. They stood in a light-colored space that was otherwise undefined.

“Ask him,” Galadriel said.

“I will,” Elrond said, breathing heavily. He felt untethered for a moment before Galadriel touched his face gently.

She smiled -- and gave proof to the claim that she was the fairest of the Noldor. “I did have some doubts,” she said, “but I think we will be able to work together.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said, and on impulse, he kissed her hand.

“Tsh!” she said, still smiling, and Elrond awoke with a splash of water across his face.

He blinked and saw that it was still raining. They had sheltered the night under a large and leafy oak tree, wary of making fires. Erestor was already up, sitting on a large root. He was very still, so much so that Elrond thought he might have been mistaken when Erestor blinked. “Bad night’s sleep?”

Elrond shook his head. “Where’s Glorfindel?”

“Said that he had to relieve himself an hour ago. I heard no noise, so I don’t think he’s been eaten by a bear or attacked by ornery Silvans, but I may be wrong.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said, getting up. Before went, however, he turned back to Erestor and said, “I mean it -- thank you. I know I haven’t been the most gracious person --”

Erestor waved him away. “You are too earnest for your own good. No, don’t continue. It’s all right.”

“It isn’t really, but we will have to work on that --”

“Mm. Bring back Glorfindel, will you?”

Elrond nodded, and was off.

He walked without an any strong idea of where he should go. The rain seemed to lessen as he walked until at last, it stopped entirely when he came to a small valley filled with oaks and maples. Somewhere, quite close, a creekbed laughed and muttered, enlivened by the rains. He found Glorfindel tucked up quite comfortably in a nook of tree, listening.

Glorfindel caught sight of him at the same time as he did, and waved. Elrond came to the root of the tree and watched as he slid down smoothly and landed with a small thump on the ground. Whatever joke Glorfindel was planning to say died in the light of Elrond’s serious look.

Ruefully, Glorfindel said, “So you know now that I am a wicked fraud.”

“Who are you?” Elrond said. “I cannot believe that you -- what did you do?”

“I am who I said I am,” Glorfindel said, passion coloring his face. “Please, believe me in this, at least. The rest, I will tell you.”

“You will tell me now,” Elrond said, folding his arms around his body. He shivered, feeling suddenly the chill of the night. The sky was grey and lowering, though he knew dawn was not far away.

Glorfindel sat, careless of the wet ground. Elrond sat down next to him, a little more reluctantly.

Glorfindel began to speak. “I cannot wholly remember the time before I was dead. To be sure, my memories are clear, perfect, but they feel as if they belong to someone else. I remember my father, I remember my mother, my sisters, my friends, but I cannot remember how I felt about them. They released me from Mandos too soon, I think. That damned legend had come even to the hither shore and I suppose the Valar felt… if they feel… that it would be good if someone like me was out, to show how forgiving they could be.”

“Glorfindel, I am --”

“Let me tell it! Please. Eventually, I met an old friend of mine, who was likewise, meant to set a good example. We decided for ourselves that we could not live in idle safety while all struggled in Middle-earth. He was of the Teleri as well the Noldor, and had some knowledge of ship-building. Together we built a ship, in secret, and hoped to set sail before anyone could stop up.”

Glorfindel paused, and said dryly, “In retrospect, I do not know why we expected this plan to work.”

“What happened?”

“We were discovered and summoned to a tribunal before the Valar. Others told us that they were not unsympathetic to our cause, and in fact, if we had gone, perhaps all would have been for the best. Perhaps I would have had my friend here with me now. But Eru knows how long such a decision would take. On the eve of the tribunal, we decided not to risk it. One of us would go to Máhanaxar and the other would set sail. We flipped a coin -- I lost.”

“Your friend -- he was Ecthelion, wasn’t he?”

“Your recollection of these old stories is excellent, Elrond. My compliments.”

“Oh, shut up. It seems -- you should not have --”

“I thought I must. What happened before cannot happen again, Elrond. I will not let it.”

“How did you survive?”

“Well, my ship had provisions for two, and while I was afraid that the currents would not lead me past Tol Eressëa, they did. No one could have been more astonished than I when I was hailed by a Númenórean ship.”

“Do you think that you had … help?”

“I prayed to Ulmo every day. It did not harm me, at least.”

“Glorfindel…”

“Will you report this discovery to Gil-galad? Or whoever is the highest authority here? I will not mind, you must do as your heart tells you.”

“She already knows it,” Elrond said distractedly, and looked up to see Glorfindel’s raised eyebrow. “Galadriel came to me in a dream…”

Both of Glorfindel’s eyebrows rose.

“Nevermind! But how did you expect to get away with it? Did you think we were all fools to accept you as this -- perfect messenger -- who, by the way, should have worked a little harder on their blessed message before they landed -- because let me tell you, the only person who didn’t doubt you at all was… me.”

Sadly, Elrond finished by saying, “I should have realized by now that I am too old to idolize anyone.”

Glorfindel did not quite wince, but it was a close thing.

Half-apologetically, Elrond said, “I am sorry -- you deserve better than that. I think you are … I think you were right to come and you have changed things simply by being here.”

Glorfindel said, softly, “I want to help you.”

Elrond felt his cheek heat up, and he said, his voice slightly choked, “Me? Why? I’m completely unworthy.”

“You don’t believe that,” Glorfindel said, and softly kissed him. Elrond clutched convulsively at Glorfindel’s collar, before he reluctantly pushed himself away.

“Are you trying to seduce me in order to keep me quiet?” he hissed.

“No,” Glorfindel said. “I’m sorry if it was a little sudden -- ”

“Well, you shouldn’t, I don’t need such encouragement,” Elrond said and then he took Glorfindel’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly. Glorfindel kissed him back, running his hands down Elrond’s cheek.

When they separated, Elrond was panting slightly. He opened his mouth to speak when an arrow whizzed by his face, nicking slight his cheek. He and Glorfindel separated quickly and got out their weapons. Mist threaded through the trees and there was not a breath of wind or any noise around.

Elrond wrenched out the arrow from the tree and showed it to Glorfindel. It was not an Orcish kind. Mocking laughter rang out throughout the woods. “Oi, Noldor scum! You came into the wrong forest!”

“Prepare to die, kinslayers!”

And somewhat more quietly, the first voice said, “Or you know, just get roughed up -- a lot!”

The first voice said, “Damn it, Amroth, that’s not how it goes --”

“Come out here then, and fight!” Glorfindel bellowed, brandishing his sword.

There was the sound of a scuffle and a sharp yelp, and then the unmistakable twang of a broken bowstring. Three figures stumbled out of the mist -- two youths and Erestor. One of them -- a fair-haired fellow who could not have been more than forty -- reached for his belt, but Erestor made a displeased noise, and his hand felt slack to his side. He glared at them all, but most of his ire seemed rest on his dark-haired companion.

“Good news,” Erestor drawled, “while you two lost yourselves in the woods, I single-handedly averted an international incident. You may thank me later.”

“My father doesn’t believe in diplomacy,” said the fair-haired youth, with an offended sniff.

“Perhaps he believes in the Valar,” Elrond said, a little testily, “for you were about to kill their messenger in cold blood.”

“Nimrodel says,” said the dark-haired youth, looking a little uncertain, “that the Valar have never cared for these shores, and they and their gross favoritism of the Noldor have nothing to do with us.”

“Uh, she never talks to you, Amroth.”

“If you must know, she is extremely gifted in mind-speech. You’re only jealous that she never speaks to you.”

“Liar!’

“Ahem,” Glorfindel said. “Erestor, could you do the introductions?”

“Certainly,” Erestor said. “Your majesties, this is Glorfindel, the aforementioned messenger of the Valar, and Elrond, son of Eärendil and close kin to the High King of the Noldor --”

“Do the Noldor even need a high king?” said the fair-haired youth.

“And this is Thranduil,” Erestor said, glaring at him, “the son of Oropher, King of Greenwood.”

“Greenwood the Great,” said Thranduil.

“And Amroth, the son of Amdír, the King of Lórien.”

Amroth bowed hastily, still looking a little worried.

As soon as they all had exchanged as many greetings and salutations as any of them could muster, Amroth spoke up. “I am sorry for -- all that. I hope you will not say no to having dinner with us?”

“I suppose my father would want to know what the Valar are saying now,” Thranduil said. “But I did aim that arrow so as not to hit either of you.”

“How very kind of you,” Glorfindel said.

“I’m glad you think so,” Thranduil replied.

As they were all walking back to their campsite -- more grey-cloaked Sindar appearing with every step they took -- Glorfindel pulled on Elrond’s sleeves. In a quiet undertone, he said, “Are we all right?”

“Yes,” Elrond said, and then, “I don’t know what came over me. I hope we can still be friends.”

Glorfindel gave him a dazzling smile. He said, “You cannot imagine how many great friendships I have had, that started this exact way. Perhaps we can do it again.”

“Right,” Elrond said and they walked on.