Under the Ragged Thorn by elfscribe

---

Emissary from Aman

---

The mountain throws a shadow,
Thin is the moon's horn;
What did we remember
Under the ragged thorn?
Dread has followed longing,
And our hearts are torn.
~William Butler Yeats. From poem Love’s Loneliness

"The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater."
~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, Lothlórien. Haldir speaking.

“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”
~ Rumi

****************

Second Age 1600

"Are you sure it's him?" Erestor said.

He sat in Círdan’s wood-working shop, surrounded by swan figureheads in various stages of completion. Earlier that morning when he’d disembarked at Mithlond, he had received disturbing news, and had decided to confirm it at the source.

“Aye,” Círdan said. He shifted his long body in the chair and fingered the white fringe on his chin. “The ship had the trademarks of Telerin make, inlay of pearl and telpe in the gunnels. It came from Alqualondë.”

“And he looked the same as you remember him?”

“He did, curious as that may be,” Círdan said. “Perhaps less sure of himself than of old, but that might well be expected . . . after what he’s been through. I believe it will take time for him to become acclimated to a different world than the one he knew.”

“Could it perhaps be a Maia taking on his likeness?” Erestor wondered. “You know the one I fear. Likely he’s hiding in Middle-earth but he could be anywhere. I’ve only heard rumors so far, suspicious activity within the confines of the Ephel Dúath, heightened sightings of orcs and other foul creatures. It’s making my skin itch.”

“I think I would sense if our mariner were a Maia masquerading as an elf,” Círdan said. “Although he did seem other-worldly. Not exactly the man I remember.” He picked up a scraper and resumed smoothing the beak on one of the figureheads.

“Did he say why they sent him?”

Círdan shook his head. “He didn’t speak much at all. Just looked around as if recovering from a blow to the head. I sent him to the king’s household three days ago. Hopefully the king has had more intelligence from him than that. But if I know you, you’ll not be satisfied until you’ve investigated for yourself.” He offered a slight smile.

“Hmm,” Erestor said. He chewed his lip, then stood. “Perhaps you are right. I’ll take the ferry across. They should be boarding soon.”

Círdan looked into Erestor’s eyes. “The past is just that,” he said. “Do not let it control you or rule your actions.”

“You didn’t see him fall,” Erestor replied. And he left to make his way down to the quay.

The overcast sky rendered both the sea and the land in varied shades of water-colored grey. Erestor drew up his hood, wrapped his cloak about himself, and stepped onto the small ship piloted by several of Círdan’s apprentices. En route across the choppy strait, as salty breeze spat in his face, Erestor rested his forearms on the gunnel and watched the hills hosting the king’s walled compound with its guarded towers grow larger, while Círdan’s landing withdrew behind him. He’d spent the better part of over sixteen hundred years suppressing memories of the mad escape up rocky Cristhorn Pass, illuminated red by Gondolin’s fiery death throes below, and his anger at himself for not having seen Maeglin for what he was. He’d vowed to never allow such a calamity to happen again, and then it had, over and over. During the peace of this current king’s reign, he’d been able to put aside the memories. But they were there still, subversively contributing to a hollow ache in his heart that had never quite left. No, this news was not welcome.

**************
Glorfindel shifted uncomfortably in his chair and rolled his sword arm, made sore by the morning’s sparring session with one of the king’s guard. He was out of practice, which tasked him greatly. The archivist whispered to someone, the sound like shivering leaves. Glorfindel looked up from the map spread before him on the polished wooden table. One of Gil-galad’s servants had entered the library. Dressed impeccably with long dark hair curling over his shoulders, and a touch of rouge on his cheeks and lips, he stood in a dancer’s pose, one foot at right angles to the other. He then bent at what Glorfindel had learned was an appropriate inclination to one of superior rank. What was his name? Oh aye, Darthor.

“My lord,” Darthor bowed. “I believe you received an invitation to the party tonight, did you not?” He flexed his wrist as if extending a card.

“Um, aye, I did not know it was mandatory to attend,” Glorfindel said. Ack, his shoulder really was painful.

“Not as such,” Darthor replied. “But the king missed seeing you today and was concerned you had not received the invite. So I’m here in person. The king put it thusly, ‘I believe Lord Glorfindel would be well served by some relaxation and society.’

“I’m perfectly relaxed,” Glorfindel said. “Right here.” He waved at the echoing library with its multiple shelves of books and scrolls that reached up to the high ceiling. In fact, Glorfindel relished the peace and quiet of this place as opposed to the bustling corridors and many eyes in other parts of the king’s sprawling household. Since arriving in Mithlond three days ago, he’d found himself unusually high-strung as if he’d drunk too much tea. He’d wanted to be alone with his thoughts. He glanced back at the map that detailed drastic changes in geography since . . . aye, since that terrible war, which had only been rumored in the Halls. But here in black and red ink was the result of the Valar finally, after many ages of sitting on their hands, sending an army after Melkor. Now half the territory he’d known was drowned deep in fierce seas. It was putting him out of sorts.

One of the very helpful archivists plunked some scrolls he’d requested on a nearby table and then coughed and waved her hands at the ensuing cloud of dust.

“I can see you are well ensconced,” said Darthor. “Which is commendable. The king added that it would be a chance for conversation, to get to know some of the other citizens of this realm. They are, er, curious about you, my lord.”

“Huh,” Glorfindel said again, feeling grumpier than ever. Never one for politics in Gondolin, though by necessity he was good enough at it, he was in no mood for polite babble amongst courtiers, who, no doubt would have questions to which he had no good answers. He was still having trouble acclimating to the weather, the changes in language and landscape, new names and faces, new manners, and well, everything. In truth, ever since stepping out of the swan ship onto the quay at south Mithlond, he’d felt out of his element entirely. But, then he’d had the same reaction upon being disgorged from the Halls onto the winding road leading towards Valmar, hearing many bells in the distance. He had no idea how long ago that was. Viscerally, it seemed as if he were still sitting in his ship being rocked by waves. And there were still these brief bouts of dizziness.

He rubbed his temples. “I expect many are curious about the newcomer? Wondering if the rumors be true.”

“Perhaps, my lord,” Darthor replied. “I’m told an appearance, merely to quell the rumors, is the wish of his Lordship. Besides, he keeps a wonderful table, has employed the best cooks from leagues around. I was in the kitchen earlier, and ah, the smells of fresh-baked bread and roasted goose . . . just delightful.” He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

At this, Glorfindel’s stomach complained. It had indeed been quite some time since a perfunctory breakfast this morning. And if he admitted to himself, he was rather curious about his new surroundings. He liked exploring, or at least he did before Gondolin’s fall, even if he’d prefer to scale a mountain, rather than engage in verbal repartee. But it wouldn’t hurt to try to be sociable. He said, “Very well then, I’ll do as the king wishes.” He pushed the chair back and stood, realizing as he did so, that he was more than a head taller than the servant.

Darthor’s eyes lifted, then flicked over Glorfindel appraisingly. “My lord, if I may be so bold, I’m sure that your current raiment is perfectly suited to perusing documents, but might I offer my help with choosing suitable attire for a semi-formal party? I’ve been told to open the king’s wardrobe to you, although you appear somewhat taller and perhaps slimmer built than he is, but with a few well-placed stitches, I think we can manage. What do you say?”

He offered a smile and Glorfindel noticed that the servant was not ill-favored. His dark hair looked soft . . . he flashed on a memory of stroking a lock of silky black hair between thumb and forefingers. It gave him pause.

As far as appropriate dress, the servant was correct. The Valar had not exactly equipped him with much in the way of clothing. In fact, only a leather overcoat and a change of a tunic and trousers. He found he missed his finery from Gondolin. And in Valmar, he couldn’t quite remember what he had worn, just that it was serviceable. He sighed. “Very well, I am persuaded.”

Darthor smiled broadly. “Very good, my lord. I know the king’s wardrobe well and I’m sure we can find something that will suit.”

“Perhaps, it would be better if you could lend me some armor instead.”

Darthor glanced up at him. “Are you planning to go into battle, my lord?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Glorfindel smiled.

Darthor grinned back, all teeth and gums. “Ah, I understand. But I think rather than presenting an outwardly warlike demeanor, you need something more subtle, softer, but still devastating. And we can do something fancier with that hair, such a gorgeous color, the tales do not do it justice. Intricate braiding is all the fashion. Follow me.”

“Hunh,” Glorfindel replied. He beckoned to the archivist. “I’m done for the day. Could you leave these out for me until I can return tomorrow?”

The archivist came over, some books cradled in her arms and gave him a shy smile. “Of course, Lord Glorfindel, you are always welcome.”

************
Wrapped only in a blanket, Elrond stood at the large glass window in the king’s bedroom, looking out over the sprawling household towards the misty harbor and from there across the straits to the faint towers of the southern Mithlond landing. The sky threatened rain. His liege came up behind him and drew Elrond’s dark hair away from his eyes. “You seem preoccupied,” the breath husked against his sensitive ear.

Elrond turned to kiss his lips. “I am. Just wondering what the Belain have in mind, sending over a reborn warrior, who turns out to be none other than Glorfindel, the hero of Gondolin and incidentally my father’s savior. I am positively in awe. I’ve seen paintings but of course never met him myself. I can’t help but think it’s very odd he should show up now.”

Gil-galad nodded. “Well, I was quite young when Turgon hid his people away in Gondolin, so we never met either. But Círdan knows him and has sent word that he is indeed who he says he is. He certainly looks the part. It is curious though. I'd say you have reason to be concerned about what this portends. I, too, have many questions to ask. But when he arrived, he had the dazed look of someone who has come from battle or perhaps was walking in his sleep. I wanted to give him some time before pressing him too hard.”

“I believe he has had sufficient time. He seems awake and curious about his surroundings; he’s been practicing swordplay with Balthoron. And I hear he’s been studying maps and wandering about the household and grounds. So, after the banquet this evening we should take him aside and conduct a friendly interrogation. Perhaps he will be more communicative.” Elrond turned to face his beloved, reveling in the sight of his angular face, so typical of their families, his mouth, quick to laugh or to frown, his hawkish grey eyes, and his waterfall of hair, glistening like mithril. “We’ve had a number of concerning reports of late, especially from Ost-in-Edhil. Something is stirring.”

“I’ve learned to pay heed to your premonitions,” Gil-galad said. “Speaking of concerns, it’s come to my ears that Erestor returned this morning.”

“Yes, thank the Belain, finally back from his errand to Tharbad.”

“He was gone without word for far too long. I’ll soon want to hear his report to learn what delayed him. And I think he is just the person to involve in this case. After all, he was in Gondolin and escaped when it fell. Surely he knows our golden legend.”

“I expect so as Gondolin was a relatively insular community. But I don’t know for sure. Erestor has never talked much about it.”

“Well, then, there are mysteries to be solved,” Gil-galad said. “I shall send Bercalion to summon Erestor to attend our gathering. As he’s been out in the wet wilds, no doubt, he’ll enjoy a fire and some good food and company.”

“Most likely. I should perhaps get dressed.” When Elrond took a step to reach for his robes lying over the back of a chair, his blanket tugged off his shoulders and slid to the floor.

Gil grinned. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was standing on it.”

“Didn’t realize,” Elrond said fondly.

Gil looked him up and down, then gathered him into his arms, pressing the length of their bodies together. “I don’t apologize for wanting to look upon your beauty or to feel more of your skin against mine. We so rarely have this chance. I believe we have a few hours before the banquet, and I find myself with quite an appetite.”

“In your case, the appetite is insatiable,” Elrond laughed, as his heat-tingled loins pressed so delightfully against his lover’s.

“Only for you,” Gil said.

Chuckling, Elrond wrestled him onto the bed, where they rolled about laughing, until Gil got on top of him and took Elrond’s mouth in a deep kiss. As their tongues continued the wrestling match, Elrond reflected that the tasks he should do prior to the reception could well wait on the king’s pleasure . . . and his own.**************
 

---

Chapter End Notes

Yay! Notes about esoteric stuff:
Balthoron (S) Power eagle -- a guard
Bercalion (S) Bright pledge -- a servant
Darthor (S) Waiter/Endurer (Gender-Neutral) -- master of the wardrobe
telpe (Telerin) silver

In this fic, I’m going with Orodreth as the Gilga-dad, although it doesn’t come up.

On Gil-galad’s hair being silver. His hair has been described and depicted as dark so frequently in fandom and the media that it’s practically canon. Indeed that’s what I thought myself for many years, so I was surprised to read in The Nature of Middle-earth that Tolkien said, . . . “the name Gil-galad ‘star of radiance’ given to Finwain, last High-king of the Eldar, because of the radiance of his silver hair, armour, and shield . . .” J.R.R. Tolkien, Carl F. Hostetter (ed.), The Nature of Middle-earth, "Part Two. Body, Mind and Spirit: IV. Hair", p. 186.

On languages: Most of the characters in this fic are speaking Sindarin. This explains their use of the term Belain, instead of Valar. But this choice is complicated by the fact that the first language spoken by Glorfindel and Erestor (who is Noldor in this fic) would have been Quenya. Gondolin was established just a few years before Thingol's edict that forbade speaking Quenya. Therefore, I surmise that since Gondolin was an isolated community composed of both Noldor and Sindar, likely both languages were spoken and even mixed. And Fin has recently been in Valinor, so at the very least he's switching between languages in his head. But then there is the issue of readability. So, I'm using only Glorfindel's Sindarin name, rather than shifting between using Glorfindel when he's being addressed by the others speaking Sindarin, and the Quenya name Laurefindele when we’re in Fin’s pov. Uh! It gets complicated, doesn't it?