Doubts by ohboromir

Doubts

The harbours of Alqualondë were always bustling. The fishermen brought in fresh catches, voyagers returned from explorations, pearl divers set out for the day’s harvesting. Salty air filled Glorfindel’s lungs, the breeze whipping at the end of his braid. Tirion’s markets might be bigger and fancier, but it could not match Alqualondë for character and charm. The market spilled out of the port, stretching almost as far as Glorfindel could see, bright stalls selling almost everything an elf could need. Clothes, jewellery, fresh fish, fruit – it was the lifeblood of the city, the market stalls interspersed with taverns and entertainment, singers and harpers, dancing and talking. It reminded him what it was to be alive, physical, real, more than just a fëa in endless waiting.

He had made his first purchase of his second life just this morning. Well, he had put in the order a few weeks ago, but the money had been handed over today. A thick tunic of good linen, deep sea blue, with deep pockets and sleeves to his elbows, a dark pair of trousers and solid boots. The cloak, grey and warm, had been a gift from a former soldier. The man had been reborn and moved to Alqualondë to take up his true calling – tailoring. When Glorfindel had walked into his shop, he had insisted on him taking at least one of the items for free. Your sacrifice saved my daughter’s life. It is the least I can do. Traveller’s gear. It would serve him well. Unlike his new travel companions, he could feel the cold and the chill of the Ice was not something he wanted to remember. He doubted even Mandos could remove that memory.

“A lovely view, is it not?”

Glorfindel turned. The man before him was a stranger and yet not. His hair was shorter than Glorfindel’s, but a similar shade of Vanyarin gold, curls that caught the sun. Like the many of the Vanyar, he was tall and bright-faced, eyes of sapphire that seemed to look into Glorfindel rather than at him. The robes were familiar, if more opulent than when he had last seen him – white and pale blue, flowing silks that swayed in the breeze and with each step yet never seemed to get caught underfoot. The smile, though, was the giveaway. The slightest upturn of his lips, as if he were thinking of his own little joke, was undeniably familiar.

Glorfindel had been close to the grandchildren of Finwë in Valinor, all those ages ago. Turukáno had been his closest friend, his wife Elenwë a cousin of Glorfindel’s mother. But he had been close too with Findaráto and Artanis, the four of them often competing in sports and games together. Valar, that had been so long ago. Careless youths they were no longer. Most of them were in Mandos now.

“Your Grace,” he greeted the High King with a bow, half teasing, “It is a surprise to see you here. Though perhaps it should not be. Alqualondë was once your home.”

Arafinwë laughed, as warm as the sand beneath their feet. “Indeed. But it was not yours. Something other than nostalgia brings you to this port. Come and sit with me.”

The patio was shaded from the sun by a large canopy of blue canvas, an array of fine wooden couches and chairs set around a low table. The crafter had been highly skilled, the legs carved into the elegant yet supportive shape of leaping dolphins and painted so realistically, Glorfindel had thought for a moment that the chairs were enchanted. He sat on a couch opposite Arafinwë as a servant brought in a platter with a porcelain teapot and two cups. Almost as if Arafinwë had been expecting him.

“Please.” He watched Arafinwë pour from the dainty pot and accepted his cup with a nod of thanks.

“I have heard the Valar are sending emissaries across the sea. Five maiar, in mortal form – and you.” Arafinwë curled his fingers around his own cup, leaning back in his chair. Those sharp eyes fixed him with a piercing look. “You are afraid.”

Glorfindel’s shoulders sagged. “It has been so long. Rebirth is a promise of peace, and yet it seems it will not be for me. I am to be among strangers, in an unsteady peace. My…” The admission dried in his throat. “Ecthelion will be reborn here without me. We are doomed to more waiting. How long will it be until I am allowed rest? An Age? Two? It is not what I would have chosen.”

“Then do not go.”

“I must.” There was so much riding on his shoulders. The safety of Middle-Earth. His promise to protect Turukáno’s descendants. His own sense of duty to his kin. He did not need foresight to know every warrior would be needed.

“If you must go,” Arafinwë reasoned, “Then there is little to be afraid of. There will be war and suffering whether you are there or not, but you are noble, my friend, and of greater power than you yet realise. It will be lessened in your presence.”

Could he really make such a difference? Glorfindel twisted a loose strand of hair around his finger. “I am not certain. You are wise, your Grace, but wisdom is easily shared and hard to follow. How do I know I will make a difference?”

He knew that the one of the great grandsons of Turukáno still lived – one of the twins, and the many descendants of the other. Telperinquar was still alive, as far as he knew, and Gil-Galad still reigned. The land may be unfamiliar, Gondolin and Beleriand ruins beneath the sea, but the people were still some of those he had known.

Arafinwë sat forward. “Glorfindel. You will make a difference. I ask only that you trust me – I have seen great deeds for you in your future. Not the kind that bards sing of, but those that allow others to flourish. You will find a home in the house of Eärendil’s son, you will have your moments of peace, you will have friendship and company and joy. There will be war, yes, but not all war is pointless. You are a protector, Glorfindel. There is no nobler role than that.”

Moved almost to tears, Glorfindel looked down into his empty cup for a long moment. “I –“ he began, faltering to calm the emotion in his shaking voice. “Thank you, your Grace.”

He would have gone anyway. He knew his duty to the Valar, to Middle Earth, to the kin of his that still lived, however few their number. But now at least he would be comforted by the knowledge that this second sacrifice was not in vain. His efforts in Middle Earth would bear fruit, even if it was not obvious.

Arafinwë smiled again, setting down his own cup to stand and embrace Glorfindel in his arms, the lingering hold betraying their shared loneliness. “It is the least I can do to advise you, my friend. I cannot help in any other way.” He pulled away. “Now, that is enough talk of such serious things. You will be leaving all too soon, and I intend to enjoy your company while I have it. Perhaps I could interest you in a game of chess?”

Glorfindel laughed.

“Only if you promise not to cheat.”