Glorthelion Week

He did not fear for himself. Perhaps some part of him knew he would fall there, in the Place of the Fountain, but it only steeled his resolve. Even as Gothmog roared above him, slashing with a fiery whip that cut gashes in the opalescent stones, Ecthelion darted under him, slashing with Orcrist, using his opponent’s larger size to his own advantage. The promise of the tunnel kept his heart beating, the knowledge that if I hold him off long enough, they’ll be able to escape. Glorfindel had told him about the tunnel when their forces had been split, in the hopes that Ecthelion would be able to join them. He was guarding Idril, Tuor, and little Ëarendil, but he’d stayed behind for a few stolen moments to grip Ecthelion’s arm and whisper directions.

Join me there, he’d breathed, even as fiery clouds of ash built up overhead. Glorfindel’s hair had been tied back in a battle braid, long and swaying, blending in with his golden armor. The green livery of the House of the Golden Flower had made his eyes shine like emeralds, chips of leaf-bright color even in this apocalyptic scene. Once your people defeat Gothmog, lead them to the tunnel. I will wait for you.

Ecthelion had known it was the last time he’d see his beloved, at least in this life. But Glorfindel, ever the optimist, had clung to his arm with bright eyes and an unwavering spirit. Unbroken, even as the fires of Morgoth rained down on them. 

But there hadn’t been time to say all that, and so Ecthelion had simply embraced him. He’d squeezed his eyes shut and breathed in every last sense — the softness of Glorfindel’s hair, the warmth of his skin, the summertime smell of him, the strength of his arms and the brightness of his spirit. He hadn’t been able to keep from weeping. 

Then duty called, and Ecthelion had pulled away. He’d cupped Glorfindel’s face in his hands, kissed him, told him he loved him, and then made himself run back to his soldiers. 

It had felt like ripping his heart out of his own chest. 

Now, his body dusted with ash, his eyes watering from smoke, his limbs worn down with soreness and his arm nearly wrenched from its socket, Ecthelion ducked under the fiery whip again. He slashed forward with Orcrist, the blade he’d smithed himself along with Turgon, sister-sword to the king’s Glamdring, and Egmeril, Glorfindel’s blade. The three of them had been forged together after Gondolin’s completion, heated in the same fire, tempered in the same water, cut from the same steel. They’d sung the enchantments together as they hammered, enchantments that had ensured the weapons’ strength, and the blue glow that now emitted from them all. 

He managed to cut the tendons on the Balrog’s legs. Gothmog fell, roaring, and Ecthelion could not stay lucky forever. A clawed hand struck him and he flew, his back cracking against the stone wall he landed upon.

Stars floated in his vision. Ecthelion blinked, but saw only the fiery, ashen clouds above. In his chest, the lovers’ bond of osanwë between him and Glorfindel was tugging desperately at his heart, Glorfindel’s worry and panic spilling over.

Ecthelion just barely managed to push himself into a standing position. His back was on fire, but so was the rest of the city — except for that one tunnel, and the people fleeing through it. In front of the fountain, Gothmog was on his colossal knees, roaring, spurting flame throughout the sky. Above them both, the Tower of the King cracked and swayed. 

Glorfindel, Ecthelion thought, reaching for the bond as he readied his sword. Ahead, Gothmog roared, too absorbed in his own pain to realize that he was baring his enormous chest for a killing blow. Laurë.

Ecthelion? came the answer, quick and frantic. Where are you? Are you hurt? Hold on, I’m coming —

Laurë. Ecthelion took a shaking breath. I love you.

He bolted forward, cleaving his sword down as the Tower of the King exploded with flame. 

Run.

He did not feel his own death, but he heard the scream. 

The first thing he registered was the cold.

Ecthelion awoke feeling as though he’d slept for years, but he did not open his eyes. Something cold was pressed against his face — and wet.

He jolted upright, coughing snow out of his mouth as he rolled over. His limbs were already going numb, the snow melting and sliding through the cracks in his armor to soak his underclothes. 

Cold. So cold. 

Ecthelion blinked, squinting faintly at the world above. Dark pine trees rose above him, their hazy branches swaying against a white sky.

. . . . Where am I?

The flames of Gondolin were still so fresh in his mind, like a nightmare that lingers to haunt throughout the day. He had died, surely. But this was not Mandos, and certainly not Valinor. From what he’d heard Fingon say, even Formenos had not been forever covered in snow, and Glorfindel —

Glorfindel.

The thought seized him. Immediately, Ecthelion lunged for the bond, and almost wept with relief to find it still intact. 

And then he still did weep, because while intact, the bond was strained and faded like a rope strung across a river. 

No, he thought desperately, clutching at his armor, his blue robes beneath. No, no — where are you?

He had never been so far from Glorfindel. He could tell that his love was alive, as sure as one could see the hint of a person across a canyon, but even as he called out, his voice was drowned by the distance.

Ecthelion sank into the snow, trembling. He stared down at his hands — pale, calloused, just as he remembered; the scrapes of that final battle long since healed. How long have I been dead?

He got to his feet, and decided to start looking for landmarks. Only the north of Beleriand could be so snowy, perhaps the Doom of the Noldor had condemned him to be reborn in Mithrim. But even as he emerged from a treeline, and spied unfamiliar mountains in the distance, he knew in his heart that he had no idea where he was. 

Ecthelion walked for hours. Days, perhaps, or weeks. When the sun set, he looked up to the stars to get a heading, and nearly felt his heart stop in his chest at the sight of jarringly unfamiliar constellations.

Breathe, he’d told himself, even as his chest began to quiver. They are still the lights of Varda. I am still being watched over. 

Night after night, they remained the same. Ecthelion trudged through the snow until he lost track of time, following a river, searching for a water source that would hopefully lead him to civilization. 

He didn’t notice he was tiring until his feet stopped moving. One moment, he was skirting around a tree well, the next, his legs had gone stiff and he was falling into the snow. He hit the ground hard, and felt the impact reverberate through every bone in his body. His clothes were wet, and his armor heavy. He had Orcrist at his side and his flute on his back, but he had encountered no orcs. It seemed safe here. Safe . . . .  

Ecthelion drifted, no feeling in him but the cold, until even that soon departed. He was wandering through wicked visions of the Helcaraxë — wind biting his face, ice cracking under a golden-haired elf-maid’s feet, a scream as her brother ran to help her, the way he’d shivered and sobbed, how his lips and hands had turned blue . . . . Ecthelion wandered so long, he could no longer tell memories from dreams. They surrounded him: cold wind, biting snowflakes, the cacophonous grinding of ice, the cold that seeped into his bones like exhaustion, telling him to just lay down, it would soon all be over, soon . . . .

Voices.

Ecthelion caught something at the edge of his hearing, but found he could not move to get up. There was a little boy — eight, maybe, accompanied by a few teenage voices, and an older, more mature one.

And they spoke the Mannish tongue.

Ecthelion did not know it well, not as well as Idril or even Glorfindel did. What words he knew, he’d picked up from Tuor as the Man sang or swore under his breath, and from that, Ecthelion could glean a little.

Distant. A young man’s voice.

“. . . hear it?”

The sound of hoofbeats through snow. The young man’s clothes swished as he dismounted — it sounded as though he wore a cloak, and heavy furs — and boots crunched against the ground. 

“Hey,” the boy said softly, as though talking to a small animal. Ecthelion couldn’t understand the whole sentence the boy said next, but he imagined the boy had found some kind of creature, and was now attempting to pick it up. The boy let out a soft laugh, and then there was a sound of tiny paws padding through snow, boots hurrying after it — coming closer.

Ecthelion found he still could not move. For some reason, this did not bother him. In fact, little bothered him at all. He could not feel anything anymore. 

That was, until something warm, wet, and tiny touched his cheek. 

An animal’s nose. 

The boots stopped. The boy’s breath shook. 

“Father!”

The next thing Ecthelion knew, he was being lifted away from the snow by arms of the wind. He swayed, white ice and tree foliage flickering in and out of his vision, until a smell filled his nose — the smell of horse. 

I’ve been found, he thought. Taken prisoner, perhaps. These men might sell me into thralldom under the Enemy.

But Ecthelion could not move. Not even as someone shuffled him around on horseback, and the world began to pass by more quickly. He could not feel anything, not until something large and dark loomed above him, but all he could focus on was a yellow flower growing up from the mud.

Fascinating, his mind slurred. How resilient.

Then, everything slid sideways, and the darkness was complete.

He’d almost welcomed death. Now that they were out of the burning city, away from the worst of the army, the odds were not so terrible. When the Balrog had approached, Glorfindel had hugged his niece, and seen the look in her eyes — one she’d inherited from her sister, a sharp flash of don’t do it, don’t you dare, but with more fear than he’d ever seen in Elenwë. She’d screamed after him, little Ëarendil wailing behind her legs, but Tuor had held them both back. His gaze had met Glorfindel’s as the heat of the Balrog swept over them, and though he was heavy with shock and sorrow, he understood. 

Glorfindel had held a hand over his heart in salute to them — his last remaining family — and then charged at the hulking creature. 

As they’d fought, the refugees of Gondolin had fled. By that point, Glorfindel was running on pure determination and rage. You took my love, he thought, with every blow he sank into the monster. You took my home. You will not take my sister’s daughter. You will not take her son.

When at last, battered and exhausted, he’d forced the Balrog into losing its balance, he’d stood there, shocked as it fell. He was halfway turning to run back to the fleeing group — he could still see the glint of Idril’s golden hair in the mountain sun — before a force wrenched him backwards. 

He’d been no match at all. He plummeted like a bird shot out of the sky, down, down, down into the ravine with the Balrog’s claws clenched around his braid, and felt snowflakes soak his face, along with his own tears. 

I go to Mandos, thought he. When I open my eyes — I shall see Ecthelion again.

Glorfindel felt the creature’s grip loosen on his hair, and he did not remember hitting the ground. 

When he woke, his face was warmed with sunlight.

Glorfindel felt as though he had been asleep for quite a while — though how long, he could not tell. He was sure grass lay beneath him, and a warm breeze brushed his face — too warm for the mountain winds of Gondolin. I am returned home to Valinor, he thought, but when he opened his eyes, the image was ruined. 

Above him stood a flowering pink tree, and beyond its petals, an achingly blue sky. Glorfindel blinked, slowly. He had never seen a tree in this fashion before. He knew many fair trees grew in the gardens of Lórien, but they were silver in color. Yet he could not be in the halls of Mandos — he had a body once more, never mind the fact that this place did not resemble what he’d heard of Mandos in the slightest. As he turned his head, he saw that he was indeed laying in a bed of grass, next to a shimmering blue pool. More pink-flowered trees ringed it, and their petals dropped like snow, or ash.

Ash.

All of a sudden, Glorfindel was on his feet. The world spun around him — a wash of green grass, pink flowers, turquoise water and sandstone walls — but he hung onto the nearest tree branch, his fingers digging into the bark. Alda, hold me, keep me steady, help me breathe. He struggled for air. He remembered how smoke and flame had leapt from the Square of the King, the roar of Gothmog, the broken fountain, Ecthelion’s yell —

Something soft brushed his cheek, and Glorfindel opened his eyes, gasping. Petals drifted down through the air, light as the ash that had fallen over Tumladen, but less sorrowful. Glorfindel lifted a hand to his cheek, and found it wet from tears. 

He wept against the tree. His armor was still heavy on his body, heavy as it had been when he’d put it on before the battle, and just as clean now. It bore some scuffs and dents, but the worst of the damage had been patched up as though it had never happened. Glorfindel trembled as he shoved one hand down the back of his neck, and cried out with relief as he found healed, but scarred skin. It did happen. All of it. The thrash of a whip, heat radiating as though from an active volcano, a roar strong enough to peel the skin off one’s face. Fire, liquid fire burning through his armor and searing the flesh underneath. Glorfindel’s skin bore the memory, and he was glad for it. 

Then, a soft voice spoke in a tongue that was strange, though not altogether unfamiliar.

“Pardon me?”

Glorfindel turned, and for a moment, he looked upon the face of Idril Celebrindal.

But — no. Idril’s eyes were not so purple, her hair of Laurelin rather than Telperion, and her features refined by the timelessness of the elves. She had not looked this young since they had crossed over the Grinding Ice, and yet, this girl’s eyes flickered with the same gentle nature. This girl was decidedly of Men — her curved ears and smaller stature spoke this clearly — but yet, Glorfindel could not help the tears that burned his eyes. She wore a dress of a style he had never seen, pale blue silk draping about her small, slight figure to flow in the wind, edged with silver and pearls. The tongue she spoke in was one he did not know well — it seemed a cousin of the language Tuor often muttered under his breath when he was exasperated — but he knew enough of it to understand what she said next. 

“Are you well?”

Glorfindel did not wish to worry this girl who looked so much like his princess — his queen, now that Turgon was gone — but he could not will his tears to dry. She looked so young, older than Ëarendil, certainly, but still much too young to hear of the horrors that had come to pass. She was a slight thing, and looked perhaps as a sister of Idril may have, writ in silver instead of gold. Her skin was kissed by the sun, her features high and regal, but still rounded by youth and innocence. 

Similar to how Idril had been, during the crossing.

“I —” His voice trembled. “Nay, I do not think so.” He straightened, and tried for a smile as he hastily wiped his cheeks. “But fear not, I have suffered worse. May I ask — what is this place, that I find myself in?” She stared at him. “You are in the gardens of Illyrio Mopatis,” she said slowly. 

Glorfindel nodded to show he understood — her care was much appreciated, though he feared it came from her thinking that he was perhaps not in his right mind. “Illyrio?”

Her brow furrowed gently. “Have you hit your head, my lord?” “Ah.” Glorfindel patted his head. His hair had come undone from its battle braid, which was unsurprising. Apart from it, he was as he had been before the fighting had begun: clad in his golden armor and white garments. His sword, Egmeril, was sheathed at his side, Valar be praised, and Glorfindel did not bear a single injury, not even on his head.

So why did he not remember how he had gotten here?

“I fear do not know,” he murmured, and his hand fell from his hair. Ecthelion had always chastised him for not wearing a helmet into battle — he would be equal parts horrified, amused, and vindicated when he learned of what had passed. 

Glorfindel’s heart seized.

“Pardon me,” he blurted, and his words rushed out in a desperate gasp. “Knowest thou of a lord called Ecthelion of the Fountain? Doth he dwell here? I —” His eyes stung, and emotion rose in him like a swell on the sea. “I would very much like to see him.”

The maid’s eyes remained blank. Slowly, she shook her head.

Glorfindel felt as though the stones of Gondolin had fallen onto his chest. 

“What does he look like?” she asked. “There are many lords in Pentos — perhaps —”

Glorfindel’s knees buckled, and the whole unfamiliar world swam about him. Pentos — he had never heard the name before. Was it the city, or the country? This place was too warm to be Beleriand, even in the summertime, he had hoped Valinor, but —

His hand flew over his mouth, and tears began to spill down his cheeks. He could not hide his distress from the young lady — it was barely enough for him to keep himself standing. He closed his eyes, the girl’s voice blurring in his ears as he reached out for the bond. 

It was not as strong as the bond between married elves, but Glorfindel and Ecthelion had nurtured it for almost a thousand years, ever since the day they first met in the treelight of Tirion. They had stuck together as they’d crossed the Grinding Ice, seeking out each other’s warmth for reasons they had not yet begun to suspect — and one horrible evening, a gust of wind like a warhammer had hit Glorfindel square in the chest. He’d toppled, and would’ve slipped into the freezing abyss of the ocean had Ecthelion not caught him. Ecthelion had pulled him back from the edge, and held onto him with a hot fierceness that had warmed them both through. 

Glorfindel had first felt the bond unfurl then. He’d barely been coherent from the cold and the shock, but he remembered the spark it lit in him, like the joy from seeing the first blossom of a flower — and then he remembered where he was. 

He hadn’t said a word about it, and neither had Ecthelion, but the bond remained — a tether between the two of them, a line that, for the longest time, Glorfindel thought only went one way. He and Ecthelion clung to each other for the rest of the cold walk, but Glorfindel told himself it was just for warmth. He’d always been a physically affectionate person, but he’d never known Ecthelion to seek out such contact. He’d relished in the rare comfort, trying to memorize the feel of it, and had only broken away when he’d seen the ice crack under his sister’s feet.

Ecthelion had been the one to drag him from the freezing water. He was the only one who could’ve, save for Turgon, Fingon, or Fingolfin — and the last two were already focused on the first. Only the sight of little Idril, wet and shivering violently but alive, had gotten both Glorfindel and Turgon to stop struggling. 

Ecthelion had cradled Glorfindel as he’d screamed his sister’s name, so hard he hadn’t been able to talk for days afterward. 

Everyone had rushed to get the three of them as dry as possible. In a blur, Glorfindel registered that someone was stripping off his outer layers of clothing — and it was Ecthelion’s hands, calloused from the smithy but but gentle, so gentle — there was a flush on his cheeks that had to be from the cold, but his eyes were constantly snapping away — and then Glorfindel came to amongst a huddle of warm bodies. Him, Turgon, and little Idril were all dressed in dry clothes, hugging each other for warmth — and behind Glorfindel, chest against his back, arms wrapped protectively around his waist, breath brushing by his ear — was Ecthelion. 

From that moment on, Glorfindel had known that at least on his side, this bond wasn’t going away. That night, it had been like spider silk, almost invisible and yet impossible to ignore. For the longest time, he’d tried, telling himself he couldn’t attempt a relationship now, not when they marched towards death. The Noldor did not marry in times of war, and for good reason. After the death of Elenwe, Turgon was a shell of himself. He did not eat, or sleep, and while Idril managed to bring some of the brightness back to his eyes, it was a wound that never left him. Idril was what kept him alive, the fact that she needed him more than ever now. Glorfindel knew that such a thing would not be the case for him. As they’d marched from Losgar to Hithlum, he’d thought to himself: even if Ecthelion does feel the same way, the breaking of that bond would kill us both. Better to wait.

Four hundred and fifty-five years later, in a haze of steel and panic, he’d regretted that decision more than any other. 

The Battle of the Sudden Flame — where the mountains had ripped open with fire, orcs spilled from Angband, and dragons had crushed the earth under their feet. Turgon had forbidden the major part of their force from participating, to preserve Gondolin’s secrecy, but he’d allowed a few of them to join Fingolfin’s host. Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Rog, Penlod, and their host had marched along with Fingon and the High King’s forces with the hopes of defending Dorthonion, but in the end, they’d barely been able to escape with their lives. They’d been helping refugees escape a holdfast when news had come of Lord Angrod and Aegnor’s deaths — news that had caused the strongest of the group, an elderly human woman with her white hair in a braid, to fall to her knees. Penlod had carried the woman out of there, her eyes like glass, and then orcs had swarmed the keep. Glorfindel had been at the front, leading the Men out back and helping children onto horses while Rog and Ecthelion held the rear — and then they’d been separated.

An army of orcs had crashed into their flank, splitting their forces in two. Glorfindel and Penlod had barely been able to get the refugees out, running only on the arrangement they’d made beforehand: if we get separated, regroup at camp.

They’d made it back to camp, the fluttering blue fabric of Fingolfin’s war tents, but Ecthelion and Rog had not been there. Glorfindel had stayed sane for an hour or two, busying himself with looking after the refugees and checking on his people, before Rog and his company returned without Ecthelion. 

Both Rog and Penlod had been forced to physically restrain Glorfindel from running for the nearest fresh horse. Penlod had grabbed him by the shoulders and practically shaken him, reminding him that your people need you. In a frenzy, Glorfindel had screamed, And I need him! 

Penlod’s eyes had grown wide, and after a breath, he quietly let go. Glorfindel had thrown Rog off like a ragdoll — something Rog would later use to bum drinks off him for the next two decades — and ran for the stables. He found a relatively fresh mare and galloped out of camp, the world a haze as it bent out of his way. Panic gripped his throat like claws, and as tears welled in his eyes, he regretted every cowardly decision that had caused him not to at least try. Better to wait? Better to wait, and not know, rather than take the chance and savor whatever might come? Despairing, desperate for a heading, any kind of consolation, Glorfindel threw caution to the wind and reached for the bond.

He’d never dared touch it before. He knew that even if Ecthelion didn’t feel the same way, he would feel Glorfindel reaching out to him through the bond, even if he couldn’t — or wouldn’t — reach back. Before that day, he’d been too frightened of ruining things between them, but now that crumbled like ash before the smothering fire of primal terror. 

Please. Please be alive. Please be alright. Where are you? Where are you, let me find you! He hadn’t thought it would work. If the bond only went one way, it wouldn’t have. 

So, when he’d felt an equally desperate pull from the other end, not even the mountains had been able to stand in his way. 

He’d found Ecthelion’s people on the march back from the keep. Many of them had lost their horses, and those that remained bore the injured, but their numbers had not diminished too greatly. Glorfindel charged his horse down the hillside when he saw the standard of the blue fountain and practically flew out of the saddle, handing the reins to the nearest battered-looking elf. He waded into the sea of blood-streaked armor, crying out over the music of flutes, faint song and conversation, desperately shouting Ecthelion’s name and following the bond like a tether up a mountain until —

There was a flash of silver and blue, and then Ecthelion was in his arms. 

Glorfindel blinked, gasped, and began to weep. Ecthelion clung to him, having appeared from out of nowhere, his hair disheveled and his limbs shaking from exhaustion, favoring his right leg over his left, his hair unraveled from its topknot, but alive. The bond between them flared like sunrise, both their hearts singing and sobbing from the sweet relief, two magnets finally drawn back together. Glorfindel leaned back only to get a better look at him, and vice versa, before he pulled Ecthelion into his arms again and didn’t let go for a long, long time. Ecthelion didn’t let go either. Glorfindel was just beginning to wonder if he had been incorrect in assuming that Ecthelion didn’t like physical affection when Ecthelion tucked his head under Glorfindel’s chin, and the answer resonated through the bond. 

Only when it’s not you.

They’d kissed for the first time that night, and the feeling of Ecthelion’s calloused fingers brushing across Glorfindel’s cheeks and winding in his hair had made everything worth it. He’d gone still, every fiber in his body a held breath, a sweeping crescendo, a shuddering gasp of relief that broke over him like a flood; and as blood rushed to his head, he’d lifted Ecthelion as though he weighed nothing at all and pressed him up against the nearest tree trunk. 

In the months that followed, Glorfindel had often slipped from his own manse to climb the ivy below Ecthelion’s window. First, it was just to assure himself with his own eyes that Ecthelion was safe, alive — then, as the bond grew stronger, Ecthelion had scared the living daylights out of him by flinging open the window while he was perched on the sill. 

You really think you can hide from me? Ecthelion had remarked, raising an eyebrow in that way he did when he was amused, and not necessarily annoyed. He’d been dressed in his sleeping gown, his hair in one long braid, his fingers fresh from playing his flute. He’d offered Glorfindel a hand, smirking fondly. Come. I need someone to help me with this new composition, and you look like you’re about to fall prey to the chill.

Glorfindel had fallen asleep infinitely more easily that night, stretched out on a couch in Ecthelion’s music room with soft notes from that sweet silver flute in his ears. He thought he’d imagined the brush of lips against his forehead just as he’d drifted off, but when he woke the next morning, he’d found a blanket tucked around his body, and Ecthelion asleep on a pile of pillows on the floor next to the couch — sheet music still in one hand, and a faint smile on his face.  

Then, Glorfindel had known: come the ending of the world and after, there would be no other for him. 

When the bond had broken, when the Tower of the King had collapsed and the line between them went slack, Glorfindel had fallen to the ground and screamed. He’d clutched at his chest, expecting to feel a gaping wound where his heart had once been, but there was nothing. Nothing. Nothing was worse than pain, or anger, or sadness — a broken, empty nothing like a wrenched-out keystone that chilled his bones and made his heart stop.

He could barely conceive of it. I saw him just moments ago, he’d thought then, delirious with grief. He was as bright as ever, sharp-eyed and focused . . . how can he just be . . . ?

Idril was the only person who could’ve ever broken him out of that horrible trance. She’d knelt down, looped her arms under his, and hoisted him up, dragging him bodily down the tunnel. He hadn’t fought — only froze, clutching weakly at empty air. His eyes had remained on the way they’d come, wanting desperately to see Ecthelion leap out from the smoke, but he knew — he knew in his bones that his lover was gone. 

Gone.

A strangled cry left Glorfindel’s lips, and slowly, he sank to the grassy earth, back in this strange land called Pentos. He clutched at his heart again, expecting to feel it dark with blood, but only dry linen curled under his fingers. 

The bond was as limp as Elenwe’s frozen hand.

Glorfindel sobbed. He curled in on himself, wanting to fade into the grass, wanting to die again. Send me back, he screamed silently, send me back to where I may find him. At least when he’d faced the Balrog, he’d known that he was on his way to Mandos, back to Ecthelion. Here — here, he was lost, thrown to cosmic winds with his moorings ripped loose.

A delicate hand brushed his shoulder. Fingers hovered there, hesitant, but then the girl — this violet-eyed girl, written in silver and clad in shimmering silk — fully wrapped her arms around him. 

It was she who kept him from fading right then and there. Glorfindel’s heart cracked in two, and he leaned against her, careful to be gentle, but the girl was stronger than she looked, and she bore his weight. 

“I am sorry,” she whispered, after a while. As she leaned back, Glorfindel unfurled, and saw the worry on her face — compassion for a complete stranger. Her pale brows curved with it, etching lines into her young face. “May I ask — may I ask what has happened?”

“I —” Glorfindel coughed, and dabbed at his cheeks with his sleeve. “Forgive me. I fear I have no memory of how I arrived here.”

“You must have hit your head,” the girl concluded, but she did not seem satisfied. Her violet eyes searched his face. “Where have you come from, lord?”

Glorfindel let out a rough exhale. “I — I am not of a mind to speak of it yet. I am sorry.” 

“Do not be,” the girl replied, her voice soft. Her lips parted to ask another question, but before she could, Glorfindel drew in another breath, and focused on those eyes. 

“What — dost thou call thyself, lady?”

The girl blinked, as if surprised to be addressed with such gentleness. “I . . . I am called Daenerys.” Glorfindel repressed a shudder. Daenerys — it sounded unfortunately like daen erias, two Sindarin words that he had never heard in conjunction with one another, but nonetheless had a chilling meaning. 

The girl’s expression flickered. “You have heard of me.” “I — I must confess, I have not,” Glorfindel said, wiping his eyes. “I wish that were the case, for thou seemst a kind and gentle maid. It is only that thy name sounds similar to a rather grim phrase in the tongue of my kindred.”

“Oh.” Something in her tanned face relaxed, and she tilted her head slightly. Her lips pursed, as though she were doing something that was not allowed, but after a short breath, she spoke again. “My . . . my brother Viserys used to call me Dany. If that is more agreeable.”

Dany. Glorfindel managed to smile. “Yea, it is. Much more cheerful.” “What does it mean?” 

Glorfindel blinked, and remembered himself. “My apologies, I — I have forgotten my manners. I should be the one asking such a question.”

“I know not what my name means,” answered Dany. She blinked up at him, her purple eyes round and curious. “What does it sound like to you?” 

“It . . . it is not an exact phrase,” Glorfindel said slowly. “But, ‘Dany’ sounds like how my kindred would say ‘to go back’. Or, ‘return’.”

That brought a light to Dany’s eyes, and for the first time, she smiled. It was small, and tentative, but it was like the first star appearing after sunset. “I like that.”

She did not press further on how he had come to the garden, which was well enough, because he did not know himself. Dany stood, insisting that a walk would clear his head, and led him through the lush leaves and grass. As Glorfindel told her his name, she laughed — a clear, bright sound, like running water.

“I am sorry. It is a kind name, if strange,” she said. “Though, it means nothing in any of the tongues I know.”

“Strange is not bad,” he replied, and offered her his arm. She took it, preening happily like a girl playing pretend as a lady. Such an activity seemed to give her joy, and the act of making someone else happy helped Glorfindel feel as though he’d found footing on a treacherous cliff. “In fact, I have many names — this one is not that which my parents gave me.”

“Really?” Daenerys tilted her head. “What name was that?” “Laurefindelë,” he said, and the sweet sound of his mother tongue brought a brief respite to the weight on his limbs. “It means ‘golden-haired’.” “That you are,” she agreed, and laughed again.

Even as fear bit at the edge of Glorfindel’s mind, he hung onto Dany’s arm, and yet drew breath. Where he was could be figured out later. For now, he needed to calm himself. He asked her the name of the pink-flowered trees, and she told him: cherry. The delight of it was enough to distract him for a moment: he vaguely remembered hearing of it, a cousin of the plum. Dany pointed to the red fruit hanging above them, like small rubies in the sunlight, and asked if he had ever tasted one. He had not, but found that, tall as he was, he could not reach them. 

“Lo, a predicament,” he murmured, and turned to Daenerys. “How shall we proceed, fair lady?” “Hmm.” She considered the tree, and then him, a smile tugging at her lips. “Lord Glorfindel — you seem a strong man.”

Within seconds, Dany’s feet were on his shoulders, and he was carefully crouched under the tree, steadying her by the ankles. It was not in the least ladylike, but Daenerys did not seem to mind. She laughed as she told him to stand taller, to which he refused lest she fall, but he eventually relented, and within moments, she let out a cry of victory.

“I’ve got some!” she cheered, swaying in her excitement. “I’ve — oh!”

She let out a yelp as she lost her balance, but Glorfindel reacted quickly. He spun as she fell backwards and caught her, the cherries ruby-red globes clutched against her breast, and set her on her feet. 

“Oh — oh, my!” Dany’s face was flushed, but the last of shock faded from her eyes, replaced by elation. “You are swift!” “Art thou hurt, my lady?” he asked, studying her face. His hands were still on her shoulders. She seemed unharmed, but Glorfindel knew the race of Men could be just as fragile as the fruit she cradled. 

“I am quite well!” she replied, her voice a gust of relief as she smiled. Her eyes were alight with adrenaline, and she held out the cherries. “Here — try some!” As Glorfindel looked upon her, he began to understand why Turgon had been so protective of Idril. This girl shone with light, her smile infectious and innocent in a way that made the crushing sorrow of a slack bond a little easier to bear. 

The cherries were sweet, and bursting with a bold, summery flavor that swept over his tongue. Glorfindel could not help but smile and close his eyes to savor it, something that made Daenerys giggle. It brought joy to him for a moment, but as he turned, his mouth already open to ask Ecthelion if he wanted to try — his heart fell.

“My lord,” Dany said, and she leaned forward to catch his gaze. Those purple eyes were wide and innocent, yet so gentle, so concerned. 

“I —” He almost dropped the handful of cherries. “My apologies — may I sit?” “Of course! Come, there is a bench nearby —” Dany started off, beckoning him to follow, and within seconds, she was perched on an ornate bench with the pale blue silk of her dress splaying along the wood. Glorfindel sat down next to her, nowhere near as elegantly, and tried to find his words. 

“I — I do not recall much,” he said. “But, what I do — it is not kind.” He searched the girl’s face. She did not seem surprised, merely concerned for him — and yet, this place did not seem touched by Morgoth. “I remember — my city was burned.”

“Your city?” Shock and sorrow washed over his face. “I am sorry. Did you — did you have a family?” “Yea,” he said, and his voice broke with it. The words came tumbling out of him now, and though he feared to scare the girl, there was strength in those eyes. “Many friends, too. My — my brother-in-law, he is gone. I hope my sister’s daughter and her son have made it out, but I am not sure. I, er —” His voice hitched. He did not want to talk about his death, and something told him the concept might be pushing this girl’s belief a bit too far. “The last I remember, they were fleeing. And, my —” Now, he gasped for air, the sorrow threatening to crush his throat. His vision went blurry, and he raised his sleeve to his eyes — the white garments under his armor were clean, why were they clean — 

He wept for a moment, and Daenerys sat with him. He could not bring himself to speak of Ecthelion yet. Perhaps he could accept that Gondolin was gone, a charred ruin upon a hill instead of the shining home he had known these past four hundred years; but he could not bring himself — he could not. He longed to open his eyes and see his love standing there, arms crossed, shaking his head at Glorfindel’s noble stupidity with tears in his eyes. Castya nás naira, Ecthelion would say, before throwing his arms around Glorfindel and never letting go. Glorfindel would lean into his embrace, savoring it as he always did, whispering, á apsene ni, elenya, and smiling at how the term of endearment always made Ecthelion flush. 

What has even happened? Glorfindel screamed silently, his face in his hands as he wept. Have I simply been re-embodied before you? Why does this maid not recognize me as one of the Eldar? And this land, Pentos — where am I? It is torture enough for the two of us to be dead, but to not even see you — to be reborn away from Valinor, away from my parents, my sister, any hope . . . .

Try as he might, he could not shake the feeling that he had been sundered from Ecthelion by more than just the wall of life and death. 

Panic gripped Glorfindel by the throat, and he gasped with it. He floundered about for anything to keep himself afloat in the rising waterline of his mind, and clung to one simple fact — at least they had tried. At least they’d both gotten to know happiness, for those fifty-five years, before having it so cruelly snatched away.

Tears leaked down Glorfindel’s face as he hung onto those memories: afternoons in the music parlor, weekends where he and Rog would drag Ecthelion out to climb the Pelori, the look on Ecthelion’s face when he’d seen an enormous frozen waterfall, a soft conversation they’d had next to a fountain that had ended in both of them soaked, sparring sessions where Glorfindel would get entirely too distracted and find himself mercilessly teased, and nights where they almost went too far. 

They’d talked about it, and agreed: they would not marry. Not until all of this was over. They’d both seen how Turgon had been affected by Elenwë’s death, and neither of them wished that upon the other. Yet all the same, Glorfindel now wished for the fate of Lúthien Tinúviel — to fade from the world, rather than walk it alone. 

Next to him, Daenerys seemed to sense it. She leaned against him, her fingers uncurled to offer a cherry — and that simple gesture bade more tears to his eyes.

“Thou art kind,” he choked out, and accepted the fruit. “Thou hast not known me for an hour, and yet here you rest, listening to my sorrows.”

Dany shrugged lightly. “It is far better than listening to my brother. You need company more than he, and you certainly speak in a more interesting fashion.” Her voice went soft. “Were you . . . kidnapped by slavers?”

She had not heard of the fall of Gondolin, he realized. Another horrific thought hit him — she likely had not even heard of Gondolin. She did not recognize him as one of the Eldar — what else did she not know? 

Where was he?”

"I — I do not remember," Glorfindel said again, and his voice nearly broke again under the strain of the half-truth. "I do not know." 

"You must have been," Daenerys said. "They took you from your home, here to Pentos, and you managed to escape them. You climbed the first wall you could — outside the magister's garden — and hit your head on the way back down.”

"I do not remember," Glorfindel repeated, but sighed inwardly with relief. Good. If that was the story she wished, if that was what she could comprehend, then let her believe it. However, that did not stop his hands from shaking. What was he to do? If Daenerys had not even heard of elves, then that meant they could not be found in these lands — and how would he get home? He could not take advantage of her kindness

“Right,” Daenerys murmured, and her gaze cast across the garden. “Illyrio will have questions. He will not take kindly to an unannounced newcomer, especially one who can climb his walls so easily.” Her eyes brightened suddenly, and she turned to Glorfindel. “I have an idea. But you must follow my lead.” She took his hand, and Glorfindel found that he could not look away from that sweet, kind face, especially when her eyes blazed bright as Idril’s. “Listen to me. My brother is the heir to the throne of Westeros, and we have been waiting our whole lives for the people to flock to us. You must pretend to be one of those people.”

Glorfindel stared at her. “Westeros?”

“It is a country. Seven kingdoms. My home.” Something glowed in her eyes at that, but she continued. “My father ruled there, until he was killed by his own guard, when I was but an infant. My brother and I fled, and we have been seeking refuge in all the years since. Now, we are here. And we may be able to go home soon. My brother will be very open and suggestible to anything that may support that. If you pretend to be someone from Westeros, he will feed and house you. You can get your bearings.”

Glorfindel took a shaking breath, overwhelmed “My lady — I cannot take advantage of thy kindness —” “Oh, stop.” Her eyes glimmered briefly, and she looked away. “I . . . know what it is like to not have a home. And with you around —” A smile twitched at her lips. “At least I will have a friend nearby.” 

Glorfindel managed a smile. He did not know half of what this girl was talking about, but he recognized in her a sorrow too great for someone of her years, and it broke his heart. Gently, he squeezed her hand. “That, thou shalt.”

Dany met his eyes again, and he saw that hers were bright with tears. Still, she smiled, and the moon may as well have risen during the day.

“Daenerys!”

Immediately, the girl stiffened. Every bit of her went rigid, like a deer spotted by a wolf. Glorfindel almost reached for his sword, but then he followed her wide-eyed gaze.

Two men were standing under the stone archway that led out from the garden. One was very large, rotund about the belly and standing strong under his own weight. He wore orange-gold robes, and his beard, yellow and forked, glistened gold in the sunlight.

The other man strode towards them. He was sharp-faced, with lilac eyes and silver hair like Dany’s, but none of her gentleness. He smiled, but there was no warmth in it, and his teeth flashed. He was gaunt, spindly, like a man who’d gone malnourished as a child, and his silver hair was tied back to reveal the hard lines of his face. 

“There you are.” The young man addressed Daenerys, but his eyes narrowed on Glorfindel. He bared his teeth. “Who is this?”

Panic jumped up Glorfindel’s throat — he’d always been a terrible liar — but Daenerys brushed his hand with hers. 

“Brother,” she said, her voice smoothing into a soft, submissive tone. She rose to her feet, and her posture changed. Her shoulders went down, as did her chin, and everything about her streamlined into a smooth, non-threatening figure. “This is Lord Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. He is of the Tyrell family of Westeros, but too distant to be of consequence to them. He came to serve us instead — to serve the one true king.”

Dany’s gaze turned to Glorfindel, a silent command in them.

Glorfindel prayed he’d read the situation right, and slid off the bench to kneel. “O king.”

The boy’s eyes lightened, a crocodile grin spreading across his face. “Ah? Westerosi, are you? I see the gold rose on your armor.”

Rose? Glorfindel could hardly keep himself from blanching. It’s a celandine — “They never liked him much,” Dany said quietly. “He says he supported Father most vocally. The Usurper exiled him, and he has been searching for us ever since. Now he has found us.”

“Ah! Wonderful!” The boy — this had to be Viserys — turned to the portly, orange-robed man next to him. “It appears you were right, Illyrio. Perhaps our conquest will be easier than I originally thought.”

Glorfindel blinked, trying to keep his face blank. What have I walked into?

“Indeed, Your Grace,” said the man called Illyrio. A smile started on his face, and Glorfindel felt as though he were being sized up for slaughter. “News should have traveled by now that you are here. I had hoped a Westerosi or two may arrive. Why, though, did my servants not notify me?”

“He is gifted in the art of stealth,” said Dany. “He snuck over the walls. He said it was a way to test your palace’s security, Magister.”

“Ah?” Viserys laughed, and patted Glorfindel’s armored shoulder. “He must be dedicated, then! Come, friend. Rise. Perhaps I shall name you a member of my Kingsguard, if you prove yourself worthy. You speak with a strange accent. How long have you been traveling for?”

Glorfindel rose, and his mind nearly went blank again. “Er — many years, my king. I have lived in, er, many strange lands.”

“Ha! Lovely!” Viserys nodded. “You should tell us about it at dinner, it sounds like a wonderful story. Have you come for my sister’s wedding?”

Glorfindel blinked. Wedding? But, this girl could not even be fourteen, in the years of Men —

“Oh — I was going to surprise him with that,” Daenerys said, smiling softly. She briefly shared a glance with him. Play along. “He only heard of us being here, but not why.”

“Well, what a lovely surprise, then!” Viserys laughed. His teeth glinted, and he reached out to grab his sister’s shoulder. She stiffened under his touch, ever so slightly. “My sweet sister is to be wed to Khal Drogo, the most fearsome of the Dothraki. With his horde of barbarians, we may all return home.”

Glorfindel’s blood ran cold. He could not tear his eyes from Daenerys: the way she’d gone stiff, the unfocused glaze in her eyes, her small fingers tangled in the silk folds of her dress. 

She was a child.

He did tear his eyes away from Dany then, to stare at Viserys. His heart pounded in his ears. What have you done to her?

“Ah! You are in shock!” Viserys said, and his eyes glinted. “Fear not, Lord — er — Lord. We will all be home soon, and if you prove yourself, and do not wish to swear the oath of a Kingsguard, I shall make you Lord Paramount of the Reach.” When Glorfindel still did not react, Viserys cocked his head. “You must be tired.”

“Your intuition is as strong as ever, Your Grace,” Illyrio said, dipping slightly. “A king’s special concern for his people.”

“I — yes,” Glorfindel stammered. “Yes, I find myself quite exhausted. My apologies, er — Your Grace.”

“Forgiven, forgiven.” Viserys waved a hand as though swatting away a fly. “Magister Illyrio, could we find quarters for him?”

“Of course.” Illyrio nodded to one of his servants. “Show Lord Glory to one of the guest rooms.”

“Could he — be housed close to me?” Daenerys asked. Her voice was small, and her eyes large as she looked between her brother and the magister. “Only — he has been very kind. If it is not too much of a problem.”

Viserys shrugged, and Illyrio laughed, his cheeks turning red. “If it pleases you, young princess. Just remember that your maidenhead belongs to Khal Drogo.”

Daenerys nodded. “Of course. Thank you, Magister. And thank you, brother.”

“I — I thank you as well,” Glorfindel said, dipping in a bow again. 

“Thank you.” Viserys said. “I am happy you have finally found us. Sister, would you escort him to his room? And you must join us for dinner after you have rested.” He bared his teeth again. “I would love to hear the stories of your exploits.”

The second they were out of Viserys’ sight, the placid look melted off of Dany’s face. All of a sudden, she looked like a statue made of thin porcelain, able to break at the slightest wind. 

“Princess?” said Glorfindel, because, well — princess she was. He had an overabundance of questions — what is Westeros, what king, what usurper, what’s a maidenhead, have you gotten me pulled into a war? — but the first from his mouth was, “Art thou — are you alright?” Because, as much as her face resembled Idril, right now, she looked like Aredhel.

And it haunted him. 

“I have never done that before,” Dany breathed. Her breath shuddered, and she hugged her elbows — as if to shield herself. “I have never lied to him like that. If he — if he —” Glorfindel’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“He will not touch you.”

Daenerys stumbled. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “He is my brother.”

“A brother does not harm his sister,” said Glorfindel. His words hit the air like iron. “Not where I come from. And not where I dwell.”

Dany glanced back down at the floor passing under their feet. Her voice was quiet. “Believe me, my lord — you do not want to wake the dragon.”

Glorfindel almost laughed at that. “My fair princess,” he said. “I have woken many a dragon. And unless thy brother grows adamant scales, or freezes men with his eyes, then I think I shall live to wake many more.”

Dany’s chin jerked, and she stared at him openly. Not out of confusion, but fear. And in that fear — a tiny awakening of awe.

“He will not touch you,” Glorfindel repeated, and looked forward again. The servants were leading them deeper into the palace, and he decided to shift the subject. “He mentioned a Kingsguard. Is there a — Princess-guard?”

Dany’s lips twitched, and she ducked her head. “No. The Kingsguard protects the whole royal family.”

“I see.” Glorfindel nodded. “And thy brother wishes me to join?”

“Perhaps, but —” Dany’s voice dropped, flickering with concern. “Listen. Magister Illyrio surely would’ve had you killed if he found you in the gardens without a reason —”

Glorfindel nearly tripped. Killed? Trespassing was a serious enough offense, but to be punished with death —

“— but if you disappear in the middle of the night, I’m sure we could explain it away. My brother is always on the lookout for assassins, and —” She let out a short breath. “While it may be naïve of me not to think you one, I could use it as an excuse. You will be supplied with ink and paper, and you can write to that lord you know. Once you have a plan, you can depart, and I shall take care of the rest.”

Now it was his turn to stare at her.

Her mouth twitched, and finally, she glanced over. Her brow was furrowed. “What? Is it not a good plan?”

“No,” Glorfindel blurted. “No, ’tis excellent, but —” His voice hitched. How to explain it? But I have just died and been reborn? But I do not recognize any of these places you speak of?

But Ecthelion is dead?

Dany’s violet eyes were fixed on him, waiting for an answer.

“— but, I fear I am very, very far from home,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, not entirely. His eyes stung. “And — I am not sure whether I have a home to return to at all.”

“Then we shall look,” Daenerys said. Her expression flashed with a faint hint of steel. “I will give you maps. I will show you where we are, and from there, you can chart a course. At the very least, you cannot be the only one to have survived the attack on your home.” She smoothed the silk fabric of her clothes. “I am to meet with the magister’s dressmaker. I shall come and visit you in a few hours, and I will help you draw up a few stories to regale my brother with at dinner.”

Glorfindel blinked rapidly, feeling quite overwhelmed by all of this. He thought of Idril, Tuor, Elgamoth, little Ëarendil — how sweet it would be to see them again. However, as the servants stopped outside a door ahead, he slowed his steps to ask one more hushed question. “Princess — you speak of assassins, sent by a usurper.” He swallowed, searching her face. “What makes you think I am not one?” Daenerys stopped. She studied him for a moment — his golden armor, the sword at his belt that no one had tried to take from him, the green and gold livery of the House of the Fountain, the white garments under his armor — and then turned those eyes back up to his.

“I do not entirely know,” she murmured, and her lips twitched in the hint of a smile. “Don’t prove me wrong.”

And with that, she continued down the hall, silk garments swishing under her arms as she tread over the hardwood.