Goldilocks and the Three Balrogs by Clodia

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Balrog the Third

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    Balrog the Third

 

    During his time on the Road to Imladris, Glorfindel had become accustomed to waking at dawn and starting the day’s journey not long afterwards.  For practical reasons concerning kitchens and breakfasts, this timetable tended to slip a bit when they spent the night at some inn or other; and it slipped quite a lot at Bree under Bree-hill, because Melinna felt it appropriate to refill Glorfindel’s glass with brandy after he had spilt so much of his first glass in his emotional state.  This time Glorfindel had been obliged to admit that the brandy, while hardly the uilos-white wine of Gondolin, was quite a palatable liquor; and by the bottom of his third glass, he had arrived at a positive fondness for the stuff.  The grey Istar, uninhibited by any prior prejudices about the drinks of Men, had taken to brandy from the very first sip and was more than happy to try the local beer at Erestor’s suggestion.  By the end of what turned into a very long evening, Glorfindel and the Istar had sampled most of the alcoholic beverages the innkeeper had to offer, and as a result they left Bree unusually late the next day.

    “Not that it matters much,” Melinna remarked as they rode out through the South-gate and back onto the Great East Road.  “We should reach an inn by this evening.  I think it may be the last one between here and Imladris.”

    Her very cheerfulness seemed an offense against decency that morning.  They rode almost without speaking for most of the day, such conversation as there was being exclusively between Melinna and Erestor.  Even the old Istar was content to keep any questions he might have had to himself.

    As they came east past a couple of the Dúnedain forts that Erestor had mentioned days ago, Glorfindel was attempting to recall the previous evening, which seemed to have become strangely blurred after that third glass of brandy.  He had some muddled recollections of lifting his voice again in that paean to Varda Elbereth, while the other Elves in the common room fell respectfully silent and the Dwarves grumbled into their beards; of some talk concerning impregnable fortresses and treachery and how Erestor and Melinna had once gone looking for the ruins of Gondolin, which they had found easily (they said) because they had already known where it was; and then something about that traitor Maeglin and something else about Eagles, and Melinna talking passionately about the treacherous ways of Morgoth Bauglir; and at last something Erestor had been saying, that the Old Enemy’s habits were shared by a Newer Enemy and that if Glorfindel had learned not to trust the people he thought he knew, he would find himself the very best of company these days...

    He shook his head in disbelief and regretted it.  What had been said?

    There had been something, some retort about not knowing anyone these days, which was true.  “If Morgoth didn’t kill them,” he recalled saying, “they’re over the sea in Aman.  I don’t think I need to fear the treachery of my friends!”

    He remembered Erestor laughing at him across the rim of a wineglass.  “Now you’re being too trusting.  You’ll learn.”

    That image of firelight refracted through elderberry wine was too much for him; he shuddered and turned his attention to the Road.  By the look of the sky, there would be rain ahead.  There had been rain overnight as well; at least, he thought he recalled the drumming of raindrops on roof-tiles and the Road that day was thick with mud.  Maybe a spot of drizzle would soothe his head.

    The last inn on the Great East Road between Bree and Imladris was a big, lonely place with rather high walls and very strong gates and more than the usual number of grooms loitering in the stable yard who looked capable of taking care of themselves in a fight.  In short, it seemed more like a small fort than a hostelry, although a sign swinging above the gate announced the Forsaken Inn.  According to their guides, this was quite natural for the region, since the land north of the Road between Bree and Amon Sûl was disputed territory and those who still lived there tended to be cautious, well-armed folk.  There was a rowdy party of Men in the common room when they entered, but the evening passed without trouble and they departed cheerfully the next morning.

    Late that afternoon, they came to the Tower of Amon Sûl, standing like a sundial throwing its shadow towards Imladris as the Sun sank down into the west.  Melinna had a story to tell about a great seeing-stone that was said to be held in this tower, one of seven Palantíri that had once been made by a craftsman almost as great as Fëanor, if not Fëanor himself, and gifted to the last Elf-friends in Númenor.  After the sinking of Númenor into the sea, the stones had been distributed between the kingdoms established by the Dúnedain Elendil and his sons, with the result that when the northern kingdom had collapsed, the ownership of the seeing-stone at Amon Sûl had become a matter of considerable dispute.  Hence the busyness of the Tower, which crawled with soldiers and lit up like a torch in the dark as soon as the Sun had disappeared beneath the horizon.  It could still be seen blazing against the lilac dusk when they halted that evening, a beacon atop the ragged edges of the Weather Hills.

    For a good hundred yards on either side of this stretch of the Road, the ground had been cleared of trees or any other obstacle, presumably so that the passage of soldiers across the border might not be hidden or delayed.  There was not much shelter even beyond the cleared strip of land and their guides seemed reluctant to sleep out in the open, despite the clearness of the night and the peacefulness of the countryside.  In the end they found a patch of woodland in a fold of the low hills to the north of the Road and set up camp there, while Melinna disappeared to forage as usual.  Glorfindel was glad of the stillness after so many evenings spent in smoky common rooms; he sprawled on his back beside Erestor’s fire and watched Gil-Estel sailing over the horizon into the endless playground of the stars.  What paeans did the Elves of Middle-earth sing these days to Elbereth Elentári?  Did they still dance through moonlight and starlight until the rosy dawn?

    On the other side of the fire, the Istar was sitting like a grey mountain draped in his cloak, his hands knotted on the pale wood of the rowan walking stick that rested across his knees.  The firelight glimmered in his eyes beneath eyebrows sweeping upwards like butterfly wings.  He was speaking to Erestor now, asking questions about something or other that had caught his attention during the day’s ride.  It occurred rather dreamily to Glorfindel, as it should perhaps have occurred before, that the old Istar must have picked up a great deal of Middle-earth lore just in conversation with their companions along the way from Mithlond.  He might have picked it up himself, had he listened more often.  Why were they travelling all the way to Imladris when the Istar could just as well have stayed at the Grey Havens and talked to Erestor and Melinna there instead?

    Idril’s grandson.  That was why he was travelling to Imladris.  Nothing to do with lore at all.

    “There’s that bird again,” he heard the old Istar saying.  “I’ve been hearing it all the way from Mithlond.  Nightingale, isn’t it?  My brown colleague would know.  Are they common throughout Eriador?”

    “What, nightingales?” asked Erestor lazily.  His hands were occupied with wood and his knife, as usual, and he did not look up.  “I wouldn’t say they were uncommon.  Is your brown colleague an expert on birdsong, then?”

    “Somewhat.  He surely knows more than I do.”

    More than I do.  Glorfindel, lying in the grass with his eyes full of starlight and darkness, remembered how Aiwendil had thrown scraps of fish to the seagulls from the swan-ship, and how Curumo had scolded him, and how later a couple of gulls had somehow got into Curumo’s cabin and made a thorough mess of that pristine Istar’s white robes.  Curumo’s rage at that point had penetrated even Glorfindel’s elsewhereness.

    He laughed a little, without sound.  Aiwendil, an expert on birdsong.  That was certainly one way of putting it.

    “I heard Melian the Maia taught the nightingales to sing,” he said dreamily, recalling one of the oldest tales about the Queen of Doriath.  “I heard they brought news to her of everything that ever happened in Beleriand.  ‘A little bird told me’, she used to say.  Or so I heard.”

    “Is that true?” asked the Istar, curious.  “Did she really?”

    Erestor flicked a scrap of wood into the fire with the edge of his knife.  His face was deep in shadow.  

    “She certainly taught the nightingales to sing.  She taught us all to sing, I think, all of us who’d never crossed the Sundering Sea.  She taught Daeron herself and he was the greatest minstrel who ever lived – greater even than your Maglor, Glorfindel.  When she spoke, you couldn’t hear anything except what she was saying, and when she sang...”

    He shook his head wonderingly.  “Once you’d heard her, you realised you’d only been squawking all your life, and then you’d be too ashamed to make a sound until she smiled at you.  King Thingol always said it was her singing that cast the first enchantment.  I used to think you hadn’t lived until you’d heard the Lady Melian sing.”

    His sincerity was obvious.  Glorfindel blinked through the firelight in vague surprise.  It was strange to hear Erestor’s dark-eyed detachment softening as he spoke about Melian the Maia Queen of Doriath.

    From somewhere nearby, the nightingale’s call came again, a quick trill of song through the darkening woods.  A frown crossed Erestor’s face.  He set down his carving and rose on soundless feet, casting a swift glance across their camp.  As he glanced over the horses and the cosy campfire, his eyes held more than a hint of irritation.

    “Excuse me,” he said lightly.  “Call of nature.  Don’t be too noisy while I’m gone.”

    He drew up his shadow-grey hood and disappeared into the gloom beyond the firelight without another word.  Glorfindel and the Istar stared at each other in surprise.

    “I wonder,” said the old Istar at last.  He planted the base of the walking stick firmly in the grass and wrapped his big hands around it, heaving himself to his feet.  He was still looking at Glorfindel and his eyes were bright and youthful beneath his sweeping brows.  “What sort of nature do you think was calling him?”

    “Good question,” said Glorfindel, getting up himself.  He had unbuckled his sword belt when they had made camp; now he reached for the sword that he had chosen from Lord Círdan’s armoury in Mithlond, a good, sharp blade with a plain hilt and a nice balance.  As natural as the weapon felt in his hand, he still felt a sudden wrench of regret for his own sword, lost in that chasm long ago at Cirith Thoronath.  He missed his armour as well; it had been commissioned for him by his father from the smiths in Valinor, long before Fëanor ever conceived of a return to Middle-earth.  Such armour would not be easily replaced.

    He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the night.  Nothing much out of the ordinary: leaves rustling, the sounds of insects, a twist of a breeze.  The horses grazing, quietly enough.  All his instincts tingled.  When he opened his eyes again, his gaze fell on the wood that Erestor had discarded: another little bird, half-carved, still lying there in the grass.

    “Hear that?” said the Istar suddenly, lifting his head.

    Glorfindel nodded once.  The crack of a broken twig some way south of them.  His Elven ears picked up an ominous shuffling as well; as he turned on the balls of his feet, sword in hand, it stopped abruptly.  All was silent again.

    The Istar was holding Erestor’s rowan stick like a quarterstaff.  “Gone?”

    “I don’t know.”

    They were both speaking very softly.  A slight noise to the west made Glorfindel swing round at once and take a few steps that way, abandoning the circle of the fire.  His sword was a shadow among shadows, warm in his hand.

    Nothing moved.  There was no danger there.

    As he turned back towards the fire, a tremor in the leaves not far from the horses caught his eye.  He was already moving in that direction when several hulking shapes crashed into the open, brandishing swords and clubs menacingly.  Such blurred glimpses as Glorfindel caught of their faces suggested Men rather than Orcs.  That was disappointing.  He would have relished a fight with suitable opponents.

    A clear, cold calmness with which he was long familiar had settled upon him now that the danger was clear.  Some Elves of his household, back in the days when the world was young and treacherous, had regularly hurled themselves against the enemy in a frenzy of rage and bloodlust, but Glorfindel had never really succumbed to that berserker’s lust for battle.  A commander, as Turgon had always said, was obliged to keep a cool head once the fighting started so that he could accurately calculate the odds of getting his men out alive.  Such calculations had enabled the King to retrieve the core of the Gondolindrim host from the disaster that had been Nirnaeth Arnoediad.  Turgon had certainly prized the fierceness of certain of his followers, but he had rarely appointed such Elves to positions of real command.

    “Drop sword!” snarled one of the Men in very crude Sindarin, making a slashing gesture with his blade in Glorfindel’s direction.  His companions flanked him threateningly, holding their weapons low.  “Money also!  Horses we take!”

    Of course.  Of course they would.

    Such a petty danger.  Such a trivial menace, such a silly little threat.  Once he had built a shining white city; once he had commanded Turgon’s left wing at Nirnaeth Arnoediad; once he had duelled a Balrog sent by the Dark Lord Morgoth Bauglir.  Now he was doomed to be ambushed by a handful of petty thieves in the night!

    “What if I don’t want you to?” he said softly, taking a step towards them.

    Three opponents.  By the way they carried their weapons, they could use them.  That was no problem.  He could use his sword as well and he could move much faster than any Man.  Men were dangerous in numbers or if given a chance to turn traitor.  A mere three Men?  He could certainly handle that.

    The leader waved his sword again.  “Drop sword!”

    “No.  Drop yours, Sun-child, before I carve it out of your hand.”

    He could just make out the startled look on the Man’s face.  At another time, he might have laughed.

    “I’m with you,” the grey Istar said quietly at his back.  “Two to three.”

    “Easy odds.”  He took another step forwards, lifting his voice.  The words flowed as sweetly as birdsong, as smooth as a paean.  Beneath his feet, every single blade of grass was visible in the glow of his wrath.  “I was born before the Sun, my little ones, and I cut my teeth on Orcs and Bauglir’s wolves.  I lived through a battle that killed uncounted thousands of Elves and ten times as many who came riding down from Angband.  I was there when the dragons tore Gondolin apart!  It still took a Balrog to kill me and I will not give up my sword.  Not to you, or any other petty children of the day.  Take it from me, if you dare!  And tell me, Sun-children – who’s first?”

    The leader gaped at him, opened his mouth as if to reply and abruptly pitched forwards.  As the other two Men spun around with startled yells, one took a black-feathered arrow to the throat and collapsed on top of his leader.  The other Man crumpled almost instantaneously, Erestor having materialised behind him in a soundless swirl of shadow-grey.

    “My word, how very heroic,” came Melinna’s voice dryly from deeper in the shadows.  A moment later, she came out into the open, a third arrow still nocked on her bowstring.  Her expression was not entirely approving and she addressed her next remark to Erestor.  “They are so terribly visible, aren’t they?  I could have heard Glorfindel a mile off.”

    “You have to admit, he’d look good on a battlefield,” said Erestor, although he too was giving them that unamused look of cool, critical appraisal.  He held a long knife in each hand; now he knelt to clean the blades on the tunic of one of their would-be ambushers, adding, “In fact, I seem to remember he did.  As for our grey friend –”

    “A shade flashy.  What’s the trick?  Some kind of powder?”

    Glorfindel was utterly speechless.  He turned towards the Istar, bewildered, and stopped short as he caught sight of the rowan walking stick.  The Istar still held it like a quarterstaff in both hands and blue fire ran up and down its length, shining dangerously through the gathering dusk.  The Istar himself was looking slightly embarrassed; as they stared at him, the flames flickered and vanished.

    “Well,” he said.  “Not precisely.”

    “Do explain,” said Melinna, “later.  Erestor, are my arrows –?”

    Erestor was already examining the black-feathered arrow protruding from the second Man’s throat.  “This one’s good.”  He wrenched it from the corpse, wiped the arrowhead in the grass and passed it back to her.  As she slid it back into her quiver, he tipped up the dead Man’s head to examine  the slack-jawed face.  “There’s a thing.  You were right.”

    “Naturally.”  She sounded satisfied.  “I knew I’d seen that hat before.  Leaving Bree before us was cunning, though.”

    “If they’d left after us, they wouldn’t have made the Forsaken Inn.”  He heaved the corpse aside and began to test the arrow sprouting from the back of the leading robber, moving it carefully from side to side in an apparent attempt to ease it from the robber’s body.

    Glorfindel shut his mouth with a snap.

    “You shot him in the back.”  His instincts were still tingling like a ruffled cat’s fur; it would be some minutes before he could lay down his sword and with it that clear, cold precision that viewed the whole world as a target against which to strike.  “There was no need.  I could have handled them easily.  There were only three of them.  There was no need to shoot him in the back!”

    He saw the swift, practised way Erestor handled the arrows and the corpses.  The other Elf spoke crisply without looking up from his task.  “Clearly your sensibilities are offended.  Clearly we should have left them to fall honourably beneath your blade.”  He put one knee in the centre of the corpse’s back and wrapped both hands round the black-feathered arrow, yanking it out in one firm movement.  “I think not.  Firstly, we promised Círdan we’d see you safely to Imladris.  Secondly, horse thieves deserve nothing less than an arrow in the back.  Thirdly, a mere three Men, perhaps.  What would you have done if eight of his friends had brought their own bows and arrows to the party?  You’d have been a pincushion in five minutes flat.  I told you both to be quiet – and there you were talking about Sun-children, all lit up like Lúthien’s smile!”

    “Nine,” said Melinna, putting away her arrow.  Her tone was cold.

    The grey Istar set the foot of his rowan staff down in the grass with a thump.  His beard was thick with static, causing it to bristle gently in the night air.

    “Let me see if I understand,” he said gruffly, combing through it with his fingers in a blatant attempt to conceal his bemusement.  “Are you saying we’ve been followed by a gang of horse thieves since Bree?  Why didn’t they attack us on the road?”

    Erestor seemed to have begun searching the bodies.  “Horse thieves know better than anyone how fast an elf-horse can run.”  He had already removed to one side the weapons that the robbers had been brandishing; now he tossed a dagger onto the pile and followed it with something that clinked like a purse of money.  “They also know who’ll pay a king’s fortune for one without any awkward questions about where it came from.”

    “They were only after the horses?”

    “Mainly the horses.  Don’t forget Glorfindel back in Bree talking about the white walls of Gondolin, though.  That sort of name makes people like our friends here dream happy dreams of ancient treasure.”

    Such a petty little world.  Such petty little villains who lived here now.

    He said harshly, “Men always were traitors.  Nothing’s changed.”

    “Yes, indeed,” said Melinna, raising her eyebrows.  “As treacherous as the Naugrim of Nogrod and the sons of Fëanor.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll have a look for their horses.  You and Erestor can see whether the other happy dreamers had anything worth keeping – and maybe someone would be so good as to make something to eat?”

    She disappeared into the darkness under the trees and did not return until savoury smells were rising from where the grey Istar sat beside the fire.  She was humming a light tune as she came into the firelight and dropped a heap of saddlebags in the middle of the grass.  The robbers’ horses had been discovered grazing quietly in a dell across the hill, where they could safely remain until morning, and  Glorfindel and Erestor had almost finished the nasty task of stripping the corpses and sifting through the dead Men’s possessions.  To Glorfindel’s mind, the robbers had carried almost nothing that could redeem the dishonour attendant on stealing from the dead, but he had not been particularly surprised to see Erestor stripping even the clothing from the corpses and nor had he bothered to object.  Such concepts as honour and dignity and the respect due to the dead seemed to be disposable antiquities these days.  No doubt it would be foolish to protest.

    When they set out the next morning, they left behind in the grass a heap of unsalvageable garments and other rubbish that Erestor and Melinna did not see fit to keep.  In addition to their own mounts, they led the train of robbers’ horses, a scruffy but obedient collection of animals now carrying a grisly burden.  After the previous evening’s meal, Melinna had looked at the neat piles of weapons, clothing, possessions and corpses and commented on how untidy it would be to just abandon the bodies there.  “It seems to me,” she went on with a glance for Erestor, “that a thoughtful set of robbers would have ambushed us in the woods across the Mitheithel.”

    “How true,” murmured Erestor, his own dark eyes travelling to that unpleasant mound of limp flesh.  “Some people have no consideration for others.”

    The grey Istar looked as puzzled as Glorfindel.  “Why’s that?”

    “Well now,” said Erestor and scratched his ear.  “Let’s just say that a few more bones in that wood won’t attract much attention.  And we do have all their horses, I suppose, so carrying them won’t be a problem.  We’ll have to wrap them up, though, or people might get the wrong idea.”

    Melinna shrugged.  “The further east we are, the fewer people we’ll meet.”

    “True.  Very true.  Yes, I think that’s a very good idea.”

    This seemed to be taking tidiness several steps too far.  “Wait –!” protested Glorfindel, shocked despite himself.  “You must be joking.  Are you seriously proposing that we carry all these dead Men along for another couple of days just to leave them in some bone-yard?”

    “That’s a very nice summary, thank you, Glorfindel,” said Melinna coolly.  “I think we should do that.”

    In the morning, therefore, the naked corpses had been bundled up in their own cloaks and the would-be horse thieves slung over their own horses, a task that Glorfindel and the Istar approached with extreme reluctance.  Their companions exhibited no more squeamishness than Glorfindel guessed they had experienced in killing the Men silently in the dark woods and their composure when other travellers were encountered on the Road was too perfect to be challenged.  As Melinna had predicted, the Road was increasingly less travelled as they progressed eastwards and they came to the three stone arches of the Last Bridge across the River Mitheithel without any trouble.

    The countryside beyond the Last Bridge was thickly wooded with dark, unpleasant trees, through which poured the Road like starlight through storm clouds.  Amid the woods could be seen stone walls and looming towers, but the Road itself was empty and it was not difficult to find a secluded valley in which to dump their increasingly unpleasant cargo.  Even though the weather had been chilly, the corpses had already begun to mortify and they rode away with a sickening metallic smell still lingering in their nostrils.

    “I’m glad that’s done,” Erestor remarked as they led the robbers’ horses back onto the Road.  He sounded rather pleased.  “Now we shouldn’t have any problems getting to the Ford.”

    Melinna gave him a quick flick of a smile.  “That had occurred to me too,” she murmured.  “Don’t let me forget to warn Celebrían that those cloaks will need to be washed very thoroughly before she gives them to anyone.”

    “I doubt she’ll need to be told.”

    “You’re giving the cloaks away?” asked Glorfindel, overhearing this with slight surprise.  “And Celebrían is...?”

    “Lady Celebrían is Elrond’s wife, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn,” said Melinna with a hint of weariness.  “Of course we’re giving her the cloaks – and everything else too, unless you want any of it.  Why would anyone need twelve cloaks?”

    After another uneventful day’s ride through the dark woods, they came to the Ford of Bruinen and found the River running high, still swollen with winter-melt and spring drizzle.  Beyond the River rose up the Misty Mountains, shouldering impossibly far above them into the sullen clouds.  The horses tripped happily through the foaming shallows and in among the pinewoods that clung to the lower slopes, where they abandoned the Great East Road for the first time since their departure from Círdan’s Grey Havens, plunging without warning into a wilderness of unexpected valleys and tumbling waterfalls and purple heather amid crumbling rock.  Imladris was not to be found on the main highway across Eriador, it seemed.  Glorfindel could certainly appreciate Elrond Half-elven’s preference for secrecy.  As they made their slow way down a track marked out by the occasional white stone, it was difficult not to remember his first ascent through the hidden approach to the Vale of Tumladen in the Encircling Mountains.

    For once, such thoughts made him smile in bittersweet recollection rather than casting him back into that morass of loss.  They had all been so young, back in those days when the Moon and Sun were new.  Telerin blood still stained their hands and the Lady Elenwë among others had perished on the Grinding Ice, and yet they had trumpeted their own righteousness to the stars.  Arrogant – and glorious.  Fëanor’s speechmaking had still burned in their ears.  They had come proudly to Middle-earth in the dawn of their days and their youth had been a beauty to behold.

    The endings had been bitter, of course.  Many of that host, arriving in Middle-earth at that first dawn, had soon departed for Námo’s Halls in a blaze of blood and fire.  Towers had been built, and fortresses and cities, and all had fallen.  Kingdoms had risen and been destroyed.  Still – it had been a splendid thing to see the beginning of those glorious, dangerous days, no matter what had become of the world since then.  His home had been reduced to ruins by the Enemy and those ruins drowned in the breaking of the world, but there had once been a white city called Gondolin in Beleriand’s high mountains and his hands had built it.  That was enough.

    A strange thought.  That was enough.  Perhaps it was true.  He set his face against the chill breeze that blew down from the peaks, just as it had done long ago amid the Encircling Mountains, and followed their guides through the wilderness in which the stronghold of Idril’s grandson was to be found.

    Presently the dark pine forest began to give way to beech trees, still clad in winter bronze and interspersed with huge old oaks just coming into bud.  The grey Istar was talking to Melinna about butterflies, for some reason, and Erestor was riding a little way ahead with a couple of the robbers’ horses in tow.  Suddenly he reined in his horse and slid down from the saddle, glancing back at them with a grin.

    “Here we are,” he said cheerfully and disappeared over the edge of the world.

    Glorfindel was actually startled for a second; he should not have been, having seen the mischief in Erestor’s eyes.  The Istar had inhaled sharply and Melinna only sighed, shaking her head as she dismounted in turn.  “Honestly!” she muttered, taking firm hold of her horse’s rein.  “Come along, gentlemen.  The next bit is downhill.  Very much so.”

    The slope down into the secret valley was as steep as sin.  It was almost an hour before they came to where the zig-zag path ended far below and found themselves standing above a tumbling stream in the last of the afternoon sunlight.  All around them were oak trees, rustling and hissing with laughter.

    “Don’t think I can’t hear you, children,” said Melinna, looking upwards into the branches.  As the laughter in the trees redoubled and the branches shook, she added, “And don’t even whisper a tra-la-la-lally!  We don’t have any Dwarves with us, so there’s really no excuse.  Come down from there, all three of you.”

    With a great deal of giggling and rustling, the trees disgorged three dark-haired individuals.  Two of them were obviously twins, a pair of fresh-faced Elves with clear grey eyes and ready smiles who came to greet Melinna with kisses and Erestor with hugs.  They were young, certainly, but they were obviously adults, at least in terms of years.  Age measured in experience was a different thing altogether, of course.  The third was just as obviously their sister and seemed inclined to hang back a little, perhaps from shyness, although she ran forwards at once when Erestor held out his arms to her.  Over his shoulder, Glorfindel caught a glimpse of her face and was momentarily entranced, which startled him.  She, too, was clearly much younger in experience than she was in years.

    “You’re back very soon!” she said to Erestor.  “You only left last year!”

    His laughter was warm.  “Are you complaining, child?”

    “I’m not a child,” protested the beautiful girl, pouting.  Her eyes were like twilight and her hair fluttered around her like shadows at dusk, veiling the perfect fairness of her skin.  “Did you even reach Mithlond?  Who are your friends?”

    “Wait till we’re all inside,” said Erestor lightly.  “You and your brothers can take care of all these animals, hmm?  We picked up one or two spares along the way.”

    There was some laughter at that and one of the twins asked incredulously, “A few spares?  Are you going into business as horse traders?  Where did they come from? – and when did you and Melinna start travelling on horseback anyway?”

    “Questions, questions,” sighed Melinna, shaking her head.  “Save it for later, Elrohir, and do as you’re told!”

    Up the narrow valley they came, walking slowly with the three children of Elrond Half-elven and Galadriel’s daughter leading the robbers’ horses and chattering all the while about who had done what at Imladris since Erestor and Melinna had left.  More Elves appeared as they approached the narrow bridge across the river, all bringing greetings and questions and gossip for the couple and curious looks for Glorfindel and the grey Istar.  They crossed the slender stem of stone in single file while the Elves of Imladris came behind them and led their nervous horses over the foaming gulf.

    And here was Imladris.  At last.

    The house of Elrond Half-elven beneath the Misty Mountains had little in common with the towers and fortresses and high-walled cities of Glorfindel’s experience.  Still, the white house with its terraced gardens stepping down the steep hillside was at least recognisably Elven, even though it seemed alien to him, and it was certainly beautiful.  The gardens were rich with spring and the river tumbled over its waterfalls through the valley below; and beyond the bridge without a parapet they found a tall pair of Elves waiting for them before the wide doors.  Idril’s grandson was a mirror image of his beautiful dark daughter, but his lady was very fair and her eyes were very blue and Glorfindel would have recognised her anywhere as Galadriel’s offspring.  In fact she looked very much like Turgon’s sister, Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, and that brought back memories.  Celebrían’s voice was softer than Aredhel’s or her mother’s, though, and her eyes were merry above her smiling lips.

    “How nice to see you again so soon,” she greeted Glorfindel’s guides and came lightly to bestow kisses on both of them.  “And how unexpected too!”

    “So it is,” said Erestor cordially.  “We have guests for you from Círdan – this grey gentleman who has yet to admit to a name and My Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower from Gondolin, back from the Halls of Mandos at Ulmo’s express request.  No one seems to know why, but no doubt it will all become clear in good time.  He’s here to see you, Elrond, possibly to find out whether you look like your paternal grandmother.  You don’t, so he may be disappointed.  Our grey friend is making a pilgrimage to this house of learning, I believe, and will be wanting to borrow your library.”

    They looked a little startled.  Glorfindel produced a smile and a fairly elegant bow for Idril’s grandson, who not only did not look like the golden-haired Idril but also did not look much like Idril’s father Turgon either.  Master Elrond’s face was fair and ageless and his eyes were as silver as the last dusk falling on Gondolin.

    “There’s a name for him!” exclaimed Melinna with a crow of laughter.  “Grey Pilgrim!”

    “Not bad,” said Erestor and glanced at the Istar.  “Will you take it?”

    The grey Istar combed his beard thoughtfully with a crooked smile.  “Mithrandir, hm?  It’s got a nice ring to it, I’ll give you that.”

    “Then it’s yours,” said Melinna and smiled at them all.  “Finally!  Our grey friend has a name and we’re almost done with Círdan’s errand.  Celebrían, my husband has letters for yours from Círdan and I have a haul of goodies contributed by some Men who wanted to make off with our horses a few nights back.  Shall we go inside and talk about that?”

    Coming from Melinna, this seemed an oddly domestic suggestion.  Glorfindel thought a glance passed between the two women before Celebrían took Melinna’s arm and said lightly, “You always have such good ideas, my dear.  Let’s have a cup of tea and share all our gossip!”

    They passed into the house.  Master Elrond glanced after them and raised his eyebrows, looking mildly bemused.

    “That was abrupt even for your wife,” he remarked to Erestor.  “Shall we go inside?”

    The halls of the house of Elrond Half-elven were draped with brightly coloured hangings and soft carpets stretched out over the white stone floors.  Other Elves gave them curious looks as they passed through and as they came to a cosy room that must be Elrond’s study, the fresh-faced twins came running round a corner and skidded to a halt, smiling widely.  After them scampered their beautiful sister, batting her eyelashes.  Everyone filed inside and remained there for at least twenty minutes of mere chatter, most of it between Elrond and Erestor, at which point the Lady Celebrían swept into the study with a regality that silenced all trivial conversation and reminded Glorfindel very strongly of her mother.

    “Elrond, my dear,” she said, fixing her husband with a firm gaze.  “I’m told our guests have come from Mithlond at a reasonable speed, not at Erestor and Melinna’s usual travelling pace.  I think it would be better for everyone to rest now and talk about serious matters tomorrow.  Rooms have been made up and anyone who wishes for refreshment before dinner has only to ask.”

    Master Elrond blinked in visible surprise.  “But Celebrían –”

    “No buts, Elrond.  I think this is best.”

    Now that was very much in Galadriel’s manner.  Glorfindel was genuinely amused, not least by the sheeplike bewilderment on Master Elrond’s ageless face as the twins giggled with their sister by the hearth.  A lady of Finwë’s house in such a mood was not to be disobeyed; he rose with a bow for Celebrían and remarked to Mithrandir, the newly named Istar, “It would be best to obey, I think.  Artanis Nerwen’s daughter should not be lightly crossed!”

    “How very pleasing, a man who understands me,” pronounced Celebrían and gave them both a gracious smile.  “Come along, my dears.  Let me show you to your rooms.”

    She led them through elegant halls and high corridors that made Glorfindel think of his own ruined tower, but bittersweetly now, since the house was both so very Elven and so very alien.  The tapestries that draped the walls were as beautiful as anything the women had woven in Gondolin and yet profoundly different, and they passed through green pockets of courtyards in which were fountains both like and unlike to those that had played in those lost starlit streets.  Even the curves and corners of the house itself seemed strange.  At the same time, though, there was nothing about Elrond’s house that was not Elven.  It made Glorfindel ache for Gondolin, even while he was glad to be wholly surrounded by Elven civilisation.

    He was shown to an airy sitting room with a window that faced the red sunset.  On a table by the fireplace lay the saddlebags containing his meagre possessions and on the other side of the room a door stood open, revealing an adjoining bedroom.  A bowl of white and yellow flowers had been placed on the mantelpiece above the hearth.  All very cosy.  He went across the room to look at the view.

    A round stone held open the bedroom door.  On that first glance, its very familiarity deceived Glorfindel and he had crossed the sitting room without giving it a second look.  Only when he picked up the saddlebags and went through to the bedroom, shunting the doorstop aside from long habit as he tossed the saddlebags onto the bed, did it occur to him to be surprised about finding it there.  The same patterns covered it as ever, gold-etched flowers with red and white gems inset, and even now as he stood bewildered in a guest room in Imladris, it evoked the same memories of his childhood in Valinor.

    And it should have been lost.  He had not stopped to pick up keepsakes when he had abandoned Gondolin.

    There was no explanation and just then he needed none.  Several of the gems were missing and scratches suggested that they had been prised from their settings, but it was otherwise undamaged.  He sat back on the bed with a thump and wrapped both hands round the smooth stone, blinking as tears welled up in his eyes.  So much had been lost; and this somehow had not been.  The oldest reminder of his most distant life.

    “It’s yours, then?” he heard someone say quietly nearby.

    “Of course it’s mine!”

    He had picked it up from a stony shore not far from Alqualondë, taken there once by his parents who wished to remember the sound of the sea.  His father had etched the golden flowers into the pebble himself.  It had served as his doorstop in Valinor and he had carried it with him across the Grinding Ice as a reminder of the family he had deserted in Turgon’s service.

    “Is it a doorstop or a paperweight?” asked the quiet voice.  “We were wondering...”

    “It’s a doorstop.  My father made it.  I lost it in Gondolin.”

    “Oh,” said Melinna and emerged from behind the door, which had not needed a doorstop at all and still stood open.  She seemed slightly disappointed, although this might have been a trick of the light filtered through tears.  “I thought it was a paperweight.”

    “You were wrong.”

    He rubbed his eyes roughly, aware suddenly of how strange this was.  Neither Melinna nor his lost doorstop should have been waiting for him in a guest room in Imladris, and this could not be a coincidence.  Something very odd was going on.

    “I suppose that means Erestor thought it was a doorstop,” he added, glancing down at the stone again.  Maybe the lost gems could be replaced.  Surely in a place such as Imladris there must be someone who could do such work.  “Where did it come from?”

    She shrugged.  “We found it in the ruins long ago.  If we were honourable Noldor like you, we’d probably have left it on your grave when we followed Idril’s escape south.”  Her eyes were laughing at him, not unkindly.  “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell Erestor it’s a paperweight?  You see, we had an agreement –”

    “No.  I wouldn’t.  What’s this about?”

    “The end of Círdan’s errand.  That’s all.”

    “What does that mean?”

    “Well, let me see,” said Melinna, tipping her head thoughtfully to one side.  Only her mouth smiled now and she was considering him with that cool dispassion that had seemed so infuriating back in Mithlond.  “Did you ever hear about a gentleman in the last Age called Annatar?”

    He shook his head, bewildered.  What had this to do with anything?

    She almost frowned.  “That’s a pity.  I’ll give you the short version.  Once upon a time, a gentleman called Annatar came to Eregion to the south of here, where there was a city known as Ost-in-Edhil.  Now Ost-in-Edhil was full of Noldor jewel-smiths and Annatar, who was calling himself the Lord of Gifts at this point, claimed to know all sorts of things about smith-craft that made them go white at the mouth.  It just so happens that he did know all those things he claimed to know and if he’d been genuine it would certainly have been an offer not to be refused.”

    “But he wasn’t genuine,” said Glorfindel slowly, hearing her tone.  “Was he?”

    “No.  He wasn’t.”  She spoke flatly.  “Perhaps you remember Gorthaur?”

    “Gorth– oh.  Morgoth Bauglir’s lieutenant Sauron?”

    “The very same.  Unfortunately he survived the War of Wrath.  Now the smiths in Ost-in-Edhil made the wrong decision – very wrong, as it turned out – but they were quite right to see an opportunity and perhaps they wouldn’t have been so very wrong if they hadn’t trusted Annatar so very much.  Círdan’s a great deal older and wiser than they ever were and with good reason – he can see danger as well as opportunity.  Do you understand me?”

    Perhaps he should have been angry.  Another time, perhaps he would have been.  Just then, sitting with a stone in his lap that had been taken from the ruins of betrayed and devastated Gondolin, Glorfindel understood perfectly and was not offended.

    He said calmly, “Círdan sent us with you and Erestor because you two, if anyone, would have been able to tell if we were frauds.  Lord Ulmo told him to meet us on the beach, I think, but perhaps he feared that even the Valar can be impersonated.  If we didn’t give ourselves away on the journey, you still had this stone to test whether I really was Glorfindel of Gondolin.  Is that right?”

    “Almost.”  She still wore her shadow-grey cloak, although the room was warm, and her hood was drawn up over her glossy hair.  Among the curious shadows and colours coming into that room as the sunset failed into dusk beyond, she seemed strangely wraithlike.  “He also wanted to be very sure that our grey friend came to Imladris.  I can’t share the details because I don’t precisely know them, but we suspect Círdan entrusted – a certain thing – to our friend Mithrandir.  A thing of great power.”

    “But if he wasn’t sure we were genuine –”

    “The opportunity, Glorfindel.”  There was no warmth in her pitiless dark eyes.  “You can’t pass up that sort of opportunity.  But you can’t ignore the danger, either.  And so Mithrandir’s given – the thing – and dispatched to Imladris, where he can be safely confined and it can be retrieved if he turns out to be a fraud.  What do you think those letters for Lindórinand say?  I’m not sure even Gorthaur would want to face Elrond and Galadriel together.”

    Glorfindel would not have wanted to face Galadriel by herself.  He ran the edge of his thumb over a gold-etched flower, remembering the Shipwright’s insistence that Erestor and Melinna would be the best escort that they could possibly have to Imladris.  A single red gem still glittered against the smooth grey stone.

    “What should I fear more?” he asked at last and did not know whether he mocked his own naivety or the world’s deceitfulness.  In his mind was still that half-remembered evening in Bree under Bree-hill, where they had drunk brandy and beer and elderberry wine and talked long into the night about the fall of Gondolin.  His words were sharper than he had intended and he was not sorry.  “The treachery of my friends or the mistrust of my acquaintances?”

    Melinna glanced sideways at him and raised her eyebrows.  “What a shame you can’t ask Húrin of Dor-lómin.  He would know.”  And then, while he was still off balance, she went on kindly, “No one really thought you were Gorthaur’s spies, Glorfindel.  Círdan wouldn’t have given Mithrandir – the thing – if he’d been seriously concerned and we both thought you were genuine from the start.  Still, it never hurts to make sure and it does hurt to trust indiscriminately.  Especially where things of power are involved.”

    “Indeed.  Very wise.”

    He turned the stone over in his hands, starting to count the missing jewels.  More gaps than gems remained; it would need a proper jeweller’s attention and a proper jeweller’s gem-store.  A proper jeweller would require recompense.  Perhaps he should ask Master Elrond about this in the morning.

    “You should go,” he added.  “I suppose you should tell Erestor and Master Elrond that this belongs to me after all.”

    “So I should,” she said lightly and went.