Mourning Glory by minuiloss

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

The next thing Glorfindel knew after the fire, the falling, and the impact,

(oh, the guilt, don't forget the horrible, aching anguish. blood on your sword and rot in your lungs every time you breathe, and always the memory of how much you relished it. you got distracted and let your city burn)

was waking up on clean linens. The light filling the room was clear, bright, and soft, filtered through gray clouds from recent showers, refracted by water still clinging to the pane. The morning

(mourning, sobbing, broken buildings, family homes, fire, roof caving in, traitor, casting himself into the flames)

colors reflected in the bedroom decor, green, silver, and gray-blue like the sky after rain, like the summer mist that always settled in the valley his bedroom overlooked, where he and Ecthelion had sparred and slid and laughed during the snow of the early spring, when blades of grass poked through the white.

Glorfindel took stock of himself and his surroundings. There were no injuries--no wrappings, no braces, no pain, no drugged aftertaste--he was clean, and there was a pile of luggage in the corner of the room. The room itself was simple, but not spartan, with a wardrobe, a closet, a desk, a few comfortable chairs, a small table, and a door that probably led to a bathroom. It looked like something one would lend an average long-term guest, fit neither for a king nor a foot soldier. There was also a bedside table, upon which, as was his custom, he had placed the somewhat ornamental dagger he normally clipped to his belt, unsheathed, with the point of the blade facing the wall at his head.

How had he gotten here? The previous day was a bit foggy. The celebration, the speeches, the dancing, and then... there was a haze of chaos, screaming, blood flying and blades clashing, and horror. Cold, falling, fire, impact. Had Ecthelion found him, dragged himself out of the fountain, and hauled Glorfindel all the way from the bottom of the mountain?

(wait--the fountain? why would Ecthelion be in a fountain, and why would I have... what alcohol-induced nightmares have I suffered?)

Still, the fact remained that this was decidedly not Ecthelion's house, nor his own. What had probably happened was that he and his friend had both celebrated too enthusiastically, and that some kinsman had taken pity on them both. The eve of Tarnin Austa, after all, had been warm, and the sunset had been fire lighting the snow-capped mountains and the sky.

Slowly, Glorfindel sat up. The floor, he noticed, cold against his feet, was made of stone tile. A pair of slippers had been lain out courteously at the foot of his bed. They looked like silk, but Glorfindel let his feet remain bare. As he stood, leaving the sheets behind, he noticed he was bare-chested, clad only in loose, blood-red trousers, shiny and smooth like satin. The window, he also noticed--or rather, the door, hidden by long, sheer drapes--had been left open, and cool, dewy morning air floated in with the breeze, tickling him and raising goose-pimples on his arms. The balcony beyond the doors was small, just large enough for two people to stand and lean against the railing to look at the garden.

Overcome by curiosity, Glorfindel stepped lightly across the room, around the curtain, and outside. It wasn't quite a valley, but he could hear a river rushing past, and down. Outside his room, though, the ground was level, only a few feet below him. He was on the ground floor. A stone bench sat several yards away beneath a tree, but his window--it must have been facing south or southeast--was well placed to receive sunlight at almost any hour of the day.

Glorfindel entertained the idea of hopping over the rail and exploring the garden, ignoring the fact that he was barely dressed, but then noticed that the earth beneath his small balcony was home to six frightfully ugly plants. "What the...?" It was unlike any cultivated flower Glorfindel had ever seen. They might have been a foot high, scrawny looking, with fuzz on the stems, wide leaves, and a bulbous green head surrounded by pointed green leaves. He supposed it was some sort of flower, but it hadn't bloomed yet, and looked rather like a weed.

"They're sunflowers."

Glorfindel started, and spun around. He hadn't noticed, but a second railed porch sat next door to his, overlooking the same garden, or the elf occupying it. The stranger was pale, dark-eyed, surrounded by thick black hair, already dressed despite the hour in what looked like a cassock, and stared unnervingly over at Glorfindel in what he supposed was meant to be a friendly manner.

"Sunflowers," he continued. "The seeds were a gift from the Tawa when they visited this winter. Supposedly, the flower is large and yellow, and always stares reverently up to Anor. Or, at least, that was how they explained it to me when I asked. The fruit it bears is also edible, and travels well. A true gift from the sun god, he said." The dark elf paused, then; he must have noticed that Glorfindel was staring at him. "I'm sorry. You retired quite early last night; I hope you rested well." He bowed, stiffly formal all of a sudden. "I'll take my leave now. I'm sure you have plans, and I have quite a bit of work left over from last night." Then he quickly knotted his long hair behind his head, leaving a few small, beaded braids loose, and flipped them over his shoulder with what might have been a smile. He was gone nearly as suddenly as he had appeared, and it didn't occur to Glorfindel that he hadn't said a word in reply the whole time.

Alone again, Glorfindel didn't move right away; instead, he remained staring in the direction of the other elf's porch. He hadn't introduced himself--neither of them had--but the stranger's manner seemed to imply that they had already done so. Last night? What had he said... Glorfindel had retired early last night. Surely not? If last night was Tarnin Austa, he'd have stayed out until nearly dawn! Not for the first time, he wondered what had become of Ecthelion; his friend had been even worse off --

(screaming, terror, fire, blood, boiling, drowning, choking awful grief oh god 'Thel)

--and Glorfindel couldn't help but wonder if they hadn't been taken in by the same kind stranger. He should have asked when the small, dark elf was still outside. Not that it mattered; Ecthelion was always a lightweight, and never a morning person.

After a while, he went inside and shut the door. The really confusing thing about all this was the pack stowed in the corner of the room. He didn't recognize it, but it was thick and well-worn. Was he borrowing someone else's room? On a whim, he snatched the pack up and overturned it on his bed. A flint, some fletching supplies for arrows--ah, yes, there were a bow and quiver against the wall--trousers, breeches, a few tunics, a few extra hairbands, a comb, a small knife... Glorfindel picked up the silver tunic and held it against his chest and arms. Apparently the pack was his? He pulled the shirt on. It fit perfectly, as if it were made for him. The breeches, too. He did not recognize anything that had come from the pack, or even the bag itself, but it was getting more difficult to doubt that it was his.

After a second of contemplation, he put it out of his mind. He hadn't planned on spending the night anywhere but his own bedroom at home; he couldn't have packed anything, least of all things he didn't even own. He'd find out whose clothes he was borrowing later, and thank them properly while at the same time apologizing for the intrusion.

Now, however, began the more difficult part of his day. He could feel a lingering discontent stirring in his stomach: partially anxiety

(lingering terror like a hare that escaped an arrow down a foxhole)

and partially hunger. Mostly hunger. No, all hunger, he decided firmly. And now to find the kitchens. Glorfindel stepped into the slippers at the foot of his bed, and then closed his hand around the plain, bare, worn hilt of his ornamental dagger--wait, bare? How had he not noticed that? Glorfindel flipped the blade around in his hand, and examined it closely. No stones cast into the handle, no intricate engraving, no prayer etched into the blade. Nothing. It was sturdy, well cast, and well used. It felt familiar in his hand, but... Glorfindel weighed his options. Whose home was he in? Part of the advantage of a decorative blade was that he could always wear it without fear of insulting his host and would never have to travel without a weapon. This one, however, was definitely not an accessory or decoration.

After weighing it in his mind, he came to a decision, returned the dagger, and kicked off his slippers. He'd wear nothing on his belt, then, but the small knife he had found in the bag could easily be concealed into a boot. He made sure the knife was sheathed securely, and then pulled his boots on. They fit snugly all the way up his calf to the knee, so he slipped the knife straight in.

With that, he took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hall.

Glorfindel would never quite remember what happened next. One second, he was standing outside the door to his room, and the next, there was an impact, a tangle of limbs, a fist in his hair, and in a flash Glorfindel had the stranger pinned, his concealed knife at their throat, chest heaving, eyes flashing, his opponent pale and frightened.

"Glo-Glorfindel!" he gasped. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you like that, and I certainly didn't mean to run you down! Adar always did say that I need to calm down, I mean..." He broke his rambling, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Glorfindel?" he resumed after a pause, more calmly. "Could you please let me up now? I promise I won't run you over again."

Glorfindel breathed in and out, and forced his nerves and his pulse to stop racing. He nodded, and slowly climbed to his feet, belatedly offering the other a hand. "I... sorry, you-" He broke off suddenly, and looked away. The other elf looked startlingly familiar, something about the eyes, or the shape of the mouth. To distract himself, he returned the knife to the sheath in his boot. "Startled me. That's all." The familiar elf gaped for a second. The explanation was a bit anti-climactic for both parties.

"Wow," he said. "Uh, why yes, I quite obviously did. I never really took you for the overreacting type, but, wow, there you have it." A moment, then he turned red and grimaced. "I apologize again. My brother does say I need to think before I speak."

Glorfindel waved it off in what he hoped was a casual manner. "Not at all. What brother is this you speak of?"

"Why, Elladan, of course! Glorfindel, are you playing me?" The brown haired elf's expression brightened considerably. "You have been here for nearly a week now, and my twin and I are still not memorable enough for recognition?" Glorfindel felt himself whiten. He had been here a week, and he had met these people? Elladan's brother was speaking again, and Glorfindel had not been listening: "...playing you, to be honest. I never expected you to tell us apart after only a week, when our tutors got it wrong for fifty-odd years. And to make it even more difficult for you, I'm borrowing his shirt."

"Of course I'm playing," Glorfindel said after a moment, plastering a smile onto his face and changing the subject. "But what I really do not remember is how to get to the kitchens. Will you show me?"

Elladan's brother ran long fingers through his dark hair, straightened his tunic, and then glanced at Glorfindel with a grin. "I was just on my way to get breakfast now. How about we eat together?"

The kitchens were not far. Down the hall, past some wide windows, down a flight of stairs, and through a great set of carved wooden doors. "Remember? If you keep going that way, you get to the room where we hold large dinners like the one shortly after you arrived, and beyond that, at the end, is the Hall of Fire."

"Oh, of course." Glorfindel did not remember. He was sure he had not been here before; how many days of his life had he lost?

(lost like a twisting, narrow cavern, a twisting, impossible path through fire and snow, we will perish, will never, never see shelter again)

They opened the door to warmth and controlled chaos. All the light in the kitchen was yellow and inviting, and elves rushed about from table to oven to water basin, cleaning, preparing various breakfasts, and a few in the far corner looked like they were butchering venison for later.

"Elrohir! It's been too long since you visited us at work. And you must be Glorfindel?"

Elrohir grinned wide and threw an arm around the elleth. "Glorfindel, meet Nanwen, queen of the kitchens! She always saved me dessert when I was small and had been sent to bed without any."

"You'd never guess it now, but Elrohir here was in trouble quite a lot as a youngling." She said this with an air of gravity and seriousness, but it was broken into peals of laughter when someone called from across the kitchen.

"Nanwen! Don't tell lies! Elrohir is still troublesome, and you know it."

Elrohir pouted at this, and turned red. Plucking up his courage, Glorfindel chimed in. "I had gathered this on my own, yes, when he ran straight over me this morning as I was leaving my room."

"Yes," Elrohir piped in, "and I paid dearly for that! Within inches of my life! I think I shall never recover from the emotional scars." He glared playfully at Glorfindel, and then turned to Nanwen. "My dear, Glorfindel and I seem to have inadvertantly missed the main breakfast. Would you be so kind as to prepare us something to eat?"

Nanwen smiled. "Of course. How does fresh granola with milk and berries sound?" They both nodded, and she gestured to a small table by a window. "Sit yourselves over there, and it shall be prepared shortly, along with a pot of tea."

"Of course. Thank you very much! You are ever my favorite lady," he said, and bowed with a flourish before leading Glorfindel to the afore-mentioned table.

After they sat down, the tea arrived first in an elegant pot with two matching cups. Glorfindel studied it for a minute, but didn't recognize the story. He poured Elrohir's tea, and then his own, and they drank the first cup in silence.

"Say," Glorfindel spoke first, gazing at the dewy courtyard outside the window. "Who lives in the room beside mine? I hadn't realized anyone was there until this morning."

Elrohir thought for a few seconds. "Lives? Why, nobody! Those are guest rooms, after all. Only you live there, and only until we find you a proper apartment."

"There was a small, dark Elf on the balcony next to mine. He had a lot of hair, and looked serious. I hope I was not dreaming the whole thing!"

"No, no no." Elrohir waved his hand, and then lifted his arms as someone brought over their meals, then relaxed when the person walked away. "It was probably just Erestor. My father's advisor--have you met him? He works quite a bit, especially now with the trip coming up, and sometimes when he works late into the night, he stays in an empty guest room instead of going all the way home."

"All the way?"

"Yes, he has a small cottage to himself, but it's quite the long walk, all the way at the very edge of Imladris. I don't know why he lives out there; there's nobody else around, other than a guard post a short distance away."

"I see." Nobody said anything for a few minutes after that, and with only the clink of dishes and kitchen chatter in the background, Glorfindel used the lull in conversation to finish eating.

"Say, Glorfindel?" Elrohir said as he poured them each a final cup of tea, once they had finished eating. "Where did you come from before you came here? I don't think you ever said."

Glorfindel wished for a moment that he knew what "here" this Imladris was. After a moment of unexplainable hesitation, he said simply, "Gondolin. The house of the Golden Flower."

To Glorfindel's surprise, this answer caused Elrohir to burst into laughter. "Oh, Glorfindel," he said, catching his breath, "you have a surprising sense of humor! Surely, then, you have been talking to my mother!"

"What? What do you mean?" Something inside him began to grow cold. "Was your mother also from Gondolin?"

Elrohir apparently had not noticed Glorfindel's change in demeanor, and flicked away the question with a casual wave of his wrist. "Oh, sure, if by Gondolin you mean Lothlorien, and surely it is as magnificent!" He leaned over the table conspiratorially, and raised an eyebrow. "But she must have told you about the games my brother and I used to play as children."

"Nay, I am not sure that she did?" Glorfindel answered carefully, slowly, as if stepping across glass that groaned and cracked beneath his feet.

"Ah," Elrohir grinned. "Well, Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer was always a favorite tale in our bedroom when we were children. Elladan and I used to beg for it, and Adar loved telling it. 'And if it weren't for Glorfindel, charging into battle against a demon at impossible odds,' he used to say, 'neither you nor I would probably be here now.' And, well, Elladan and I used to stage the battle all over the house, taking turns who got to be Glorfindel, and who the evil Balrog. The whole staff was our captive audience, and unfortunately for us they love reminding us of it even now."

Glorfindel swallowed. "And..."

(blisters and frostbite and blood and oh god what was I thinking I'm doomed anyway, children and women screaming and everyone abandoning me, running down the pass, there's no way I can do this oh god it hurts I'll never stop falling what if it survives what happens when I hit the ground? 'Thel I'll see you soon. I'm sorry everyone I should have done better. painpainpainpainpain)

"And who would win... when you played it?"

Elrohir scrunched his brows. "Glorfindel, of course! We weren't out to rewrite family history, but celebrate it! And, don't tell my brother I said so..." Elrohir leaned back in his chair. "But I was always much better at reenacting his death scene."

Glorfindel couldn't breathe. "Yeah. Yeah, me too."