Second Lives, Second Chances by chrissystriped

Chapter Nine

To say he wasn’t nervous would have been a lie. His family lived so far east that they’d never met a Noldo — apart from the rare adventurous traveller, maybe — only heard rumours of what had happened in the West. Rog had told them a little, but they weren’t that interested in the lives and deaths of foreign elves if they didn’t concern their long lost son directly. And they didn’t get what was so special about a bunch of jewels — well, here Rog was totally with them.

And now they’d meet Glorfindel. Glorfindel with his golden hair and blue eyes that was almost unheard of among his people because all the Vanyar had went to Aman and never come back. Glorfindel who was glowing.

Oh, his eyes no longer held the reflection of the Light of the Trees, this body never having seen them, but his whole body seemed to emanate a soft light. Rog had thought his eyes were playing tricks on him at first. (Maybe it was the sun reflecting off his hair, maybe it was him transferring Glorfindel’s sunny disposition to a physical attribute.) But he’d seen him in the dark of the forest now and he was definitely glowing — it was like his fea was somehow lighting his body from within.

Luckily this seemed to be something only elves could see or they’d have had to chase off predators every day. He could only guess at how intimidating he would look to his family. He’d told Glorfindel nothing of his doubts. His… friend? companion? partner? — he hadn’t yet found a term for him that satisfied him, (though his heart whispered lover) — desired to be liked by everyone. Rog didn’t want him to fret about things he couldn’t change anyway.

Glorfindel felt a little disorientated as he was introduced to Rog’s family. His parents, his sister, an assortment of uncles and aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews and other relatives Glorfindel couldn’t quite place, who had come together to greet them. He didn’t particularly like to be gawked at, but looking around at the dark-haired, brown-eyed elves around him, all at least a head shorter than him, he realised belatedly that he was a rare sight for them.

“Have they had contact with the Exiles in the past?”, he whispered at Rog while he smiled at Beldoron, Rog’s father, who was inviting him to sit at his fire — at least he thought so, the dialect of Quenya they spoke was strange to his ears.

“I don’t think so”, Rog answered. “Please sit and drink from the cup my father is going to offer you. It’s how we welcome guests.”

Glorfindel sat down at the central fire that burned in the middle of the circle of tents and accepted the horn cup he was offered. The honey-taste of mead swept over his tongue as he drank.

“He welcomes you in our midst”, Rog translated softly. “As honoured guest and as…” Rog hesitated. “Well, as melotorne of his son.”

Glorfindel smirked at him. “Melotorne, yes?”

“It’s not as binding as with your lot, it only means that we decided to share this part of our lives”, Rog answered, looking distinctly embarrassed to Glorfindel.

“Yes, of course”, Glorfindel answered, letting his lover keep his distance, but feeling it was more.

He thanked Rog’s parents for the welcome and then was content to let Rog answer his family’s questions. He’d had a secret hope that he’d hear Rog’s given name here, but everyone seemed to call him ‘Rog’. After listening for some time he found it easier to understand them and answered some questions that were directed at him.

He found it refreshing how they didn’t seem to be all that interested in his heroic past and instead wanted to know about his family tree back to before the Great Journey. He tried hard to dig up the lessons of his childhood to satisfy their curiosity. His family, on his fathers’s as well as on his mother’s side, had been very proud to be descended from close companions of Finwë and Ingwë respectively.

He was listening to one of Rog’s uncles who seemed to have known his great-grandfather on his father’s side when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Glorfindel looked down to see one of the children, a girl of maybe twelve years, crouching behind him.

“Did the Kasari spin your hair from gold?”, she whispered.

Glorfindel tried not to laugh out loud at that. He saw a few other children behind her, looking wide-eyed at him. They must have sent her ahead.

“Nothing that fancy, I’m afraid”, he answered. “I was born with it, all my mother’s family is fair haired.”

“It’s so pretty! Please, can I touch it?”

Before Glorfindel could answer, not sure if he’d invite all the children to do the same if he agreed, one of the adults had noticed what was going on and reprimanded the children, shooing them away.

“I’m sorry”, she said. “They haven’t ever seen someone like you.”

“No harm done”, Glorfindel said reassuringly. “I’m used to curiosity.” Among the Noldor he’d stuck out with his fair hair, too, though his hair-colour was usually not what he was approached about. He smiled at the elves sitting around the fire. “I might look different from you, but I am a Quende, too. I’m not special in any way. I wish to live with your for a while, because you are Rog’s family and I care about him. I hope I will be allowed to get to know you and your way of life better.”

“Nothing special?”, Rog whispered into Glorfindel’s ear as they lay together in his tent. “You are the emissary of the Valar”, he teased.

“Oh, shut up!” Glorfindel swatted his shoulder playfully. “I am not, here. And I won’t make the same mistake the Noldor made in Beleriand, thinking themselves above the Sindar. This is your family, your life. I’m a visitor and I intend to learn about and adjust to your way of life.”

Rog’s heart felt like it would flow over with happiness — and yes, love. He was so used to the Noldor eyeing him strangely, and even though Glorfindel had never been one of the judging ones, he’d not been completely sure how he’d look at his family. He’d always known Glorfindel was nice and kind to everyone. He had been worrying too much.

His family had seen the glow, but it had taken Glorfindel only an afternoon to dismantle any reservation they might have had. In the other life, Rog had sometimes been slightly resentful at how everyone seemed to instantly like Glorfindel, while he himself only drew distrustful glances, but now he was just glad that his family liked him, because he did, too. He kissed Glorfindel gently.

“You are wonderful, melotorne”, he said, trying out the new endearment. He had been intent on not calling Glorfindel ‘lover’, on keeping things casual. He was losing that fight, he knew it. His family had seen right through him and that Glorfindel didn’t was maybe due more to the fact, that he let him keep up the pretence than to him being fooled. Rog shrugged at himself. Maybe he was a coward to not tell him the depth of his feelings. But he couldn’t, not yet.

Glorfindel found himself incorporated into the daily life of Rog’s family. He and Rog shared a tent and while that would have been scandalous behaviour among the Noldor, no one seemed to think it noteworthy here. He went hunting with them, helped prepare the meals, carried his share when they moved camp — and he enjoyed being treated like everyone else.

As the days became shorter and the nights cooler, they moved towards the family’s winter village. The wooden huts were mended and made cosy with the things from their tents. Rog’s father showed him how to carve buttons with intricate patterns from antlers in the evening while Rog helped spin the flax they’d traded for with skins and healing plants in a village of men on the fringes of the forest.

The winter village was situated close to a grove of wild apple and nut trees which would add to their stores in the coming winter. Glorfindel helped with the harvest. He’d never led such a simple life. Even when times had been rough, he’d always been a noble, responsible for other people’s lives. Here he was only one elf of Rog’s family, expected to do his part. It felt good.

And he loved to see Rog among them. Happy, laughing, joking. He’d never seen him so relaxed. How could he think of tearing him away from them again?

The years wore on. Glorfindel sometimes thought of going back west, to do what he’d come back to Middle-earth for and help his kin, but always he told himself: ‘Not yet.’ They’d manage without him for a while longer. After the war against Sauron, there were others who’d learned to lead, he’d left Imladris’s defence in the capable hands of his lieutenants.