#ofcelandine

“You told me that once before.” Summer sun danced across their backs as they sat out in the afternoon on the white walls of the city, once Council was done for the day and there was no more great work to attend to. “You said that your people each have a true name, that only the very most trusted individuals might come to know.” A true name known might be used to control its owner, if entrusted into the wrong hands. Wasn’t that what Puck had implied, when they had first encountered each other and taken to talking? “It must be a worry. That someone might discover it, and wield it against you like a sword.” Or that once entrusted to another, he would be betrayed, and the name used for ill purposes no matter the earnestness in which it was given once. Glorfindel couldn’t imagine anything crueller, but then, he had always been the most faithful of friends. He would not give any assurances, but then, he had yet not been given a name.

"Right y’are,” he answers with a little nod, remarkably and almost uncharacteristically serious for once. This, of course, is not a matter even he can regard with any manner of levity.

It is far too important a discussion. 

“ ‘tis perhaps one a’the most worryin’ matters for a Fae. As powerful as we are, we’re terribly vulnerable. More so than most… Someone with our true names’d have a power o’er us that even we cannot ignore. Any command they were t’ give, we’d have no choice but t’comply.”

There follows a moment of silence before Puck continues, holding Glorfindel’s gaze…

He had entered the room where he and Glorfindel always meet when he arrives in Mirkwood and, immediately, what might have been the barest hints of a smile vanish as the moon behind clouds on a dark and cold winter’s night.

The elf he sees standing before him is vaguely familiar, yes, but not the one he expected to find. And something about the way he stands, something in his body language is… unsettling. Even before the other speaks, Thranduil has already concluded that he will not like what will be said.

What follows from the elf––one of Glorfindel’s soldiers, he realizes as he understands the familiarity––makes him wish that, at least once, he could happily admit that he was wrong. That he had overreacted. That Glorfindel had simply been delayed and sent someone to inform him of as much.

But wishing has never gotten him very far. Neither had dreaming or hoping. No, the world and the Fates had always seen fit to keep him firmly grounded in reality with one tragedy right after the other.

And here is another.

Though his expression is a careful blank, there is something in his eyes… something that reflects the coldness suddenly coursing through his veins at the sight of that blood-stained brooch.

‘He was taken… taken to Gundabad’

Wild blue eyes snap from the damaged trinket to the soldier, and in a moment, there is an almost deathly pallor to his face and the slightest shift in the way the shadows fall on the left side of his face.

“To Gundabad… ?” the words escape him without his knowledge even, his voice sounding far away, perhaps from across the leagues of memories now erupting once more to the surface.

‘She was taken, My Lord. Taken to the Gundabad Mountain. There is nothing we could do. There is nothing can be done.’

He had been too grief-stricken then, too shocked, too beside himself and heartsick to continue to argue, to not be persuaded from what he had wanted to do––what every fibre of his being had urged him to do––which was to storm the Gundabad and slay every orc that crossed his path until his wife had been rescued.

Yet his counsellors had convinced him that nothing could be done. That she was long dead by now.

So the winter had begun for the Elven-king and had not ceased. At least, not entirely. But, there had been signs of spring. Quiet and subdued though they were, they were hints that winter did not have to be everlasting.

Now the golden sun who had caused, or at the least assisted, in the thaw… had been dragged down to where the winter had first begun.

Perhaps it is this thought that causes it. The squaring of his shoulders. The hardness to his eyes. The clench of his jaw.

He strides forward and––with a gentleness that would contradict everything in his manner––he takes the brooch from the other, expression momentarily softening before he looks away again and departs the room, brooch clenched in his fist.

Unlike when last he had received such news, there is no brokenness to his demeanor. There is only determination, defiance, rage.

He will not idly remain within his kingdom while one so dear to him suffers. Not again. Never again.

So he storms through his halls, shouting for his warriors, his archers, and any others who would answer his call, and when he stands before them in one of the great halls, he announces what had happened to the shocked dismay and despair of all those gathered.

Many were old enough that––though nary a word was ever spoken of it––they remembered the loss of Mirkwood’s warm and beautiful queen. The brutality and barbarity of her death.

And now, sweet Glorfindel––‘the Golden Lord, of all elves!’ they quietly exclaimed––had been captured as well.

Yet before those gathered could be carried away in their murmurings and cries, their king had commanded their attention once more and announced his intentions.

They would storm Gundabad Mountain as he should have done so many years ago, and they would kill every orc they find on their way to rescue Glorfindel.

Only as he is leaving them to their preparations that he may begin his own, does he realize those of Imladris had heard him as well. No doubt they would carry word to their lord. He does not care, and yet must they be so swift? He had hoped to be well on his way long before Elrond had an opportunity to approach him, to try to speak ‘sense’.

Again his wishes and hopes are ignored, for when he had been ready to depart from his armor room, Elrond had been standing there, frowning.

“What are you thinking, Thranduil? To invade Gundabad Mountain is madness. Have you any idea what––”

“No matter my respect for you, Elrond, I will not listen to you speak to me as though I were an elfing,” he snaps as his crystalline eyes flash. “I would wager that I know far more of Gundabad Mountain and the orcs that live there than you or any other elf here.”

“That point I do not argue, and yet surely he is already killed. Is the recovery of a body truly so important to you that you would lead your people to slaughter?”

With a frustrated sound, Thranduil turns and walks several steps back, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid.

“No.”

No doubt, in this moment, Elrond believes that he had done it, that he has perhaps talked sense into the Elven-king, yet when he turns to face him once more, his determination is still quite apparent.

“No. They will not have killed him yet.”

“I know that you hope as much––”

“I know as much.”

“How?” the Lord of Imladris quietly exclaims. “How can you know?”

Another moment of silence falls and Thranduil’s gaze shifts to the floor.

His entire demeanor is changed. Gone is the fire and the pride of the Great King Thranduil. His head bowed, his shoulders slumped, he seems smaller, somehow diminished. He is the very picture of someone who is preparing himself to say something terrible, to share what he would rather forget, what he had only shared with one other of his own accord.

Until now.

“Were you to ask Legolas of his mother, he would no doubt tell you that there is no grave for her… Because it is what I have always told him. What those who are old enough to remember have always maintained out of respect for their king, and for his loss…”

His expression darkens even still, and once more, there is a shadow that plays upon the left of his face…

“But…” He looks up at Elrond again, an anguish in his eyes that is far beyond what words can express though his own words, while heavy, do not betray him with even the slightest tremor or break.

“There is a grave… And there is a body… And there is the memory of how it was recovered, two moons after she had been taken.”

Thranduil has the rare moment to see Elrond, the Lord of Imladris, at a loss for words, his expression drawn and almost pained, as he stares at him.

“Thranduil…”

“How long, Elrond? How long did she continue to believe that I would rescue her? How many times did she call for me as I remained safely within my walls?” he questions before once more retreating into his stoic facade, his perfect mask.

“I have lost my One because I allowed myself to be swayed. I will not lose a brother as well.”

And then taking a step forward, he stares down at Elrond, a cold fire in his eyes.

“Now move or be moved. I will either rescue Glorfindel or see him avenged, and every moment that I tarry here pointlessly arguing with you is another moment that begins to favor the latter.”

Though he breathes a heavy sigh, Elrond nods and steps aside. With not a glance or a word more––for what more is there to say after one has bared to another what memories and words as have seldom been given thought, let alone utterance?––he passes by him.

By the time that Thranduil and his small army have readied themselves and gathered to embark upon their mission to rescue or avenge, Thranduil is astride his great war elk, watching as others bid farewell to those who will stay behind… when he begins to hear the approach of horses’ hooves. Mildly curious, he turns, only to see the approach of Elrond and those who had travelled with him, those remaining of the attack that had seen Glorfindel captured, outfitted in armor of the Woodland Realm.

Brow furrowed, Thranduil’s gaze remains locked on him even as the ranks clear a path that Elrond may reach their king. When the other has drawn up beside him, he is both confused and suspicious.

In answer to his unspoken question Elrond merely gives a grim smile.

“Why do we tarry now? Let us save your brother.”

Giving no more than a nod in reply, though perhaps the somber expression is returned, he then calls for those gathered to march onward, and they set their way toward Gundabad Mountain…

“You might be,” Glorfindel uttered, “but I am not. Since I met you, I saw a light in you. It is not a light that I wish to be extinguished.” With that, the golden Lord dared to move closer, resting his chin lightly against the King’s shoulder. “If me being here beside you is able to make your life even a fraction better, heart-brother, then I do not regret it for a second. I do not regret any of the path we have travelled, though it twists and winds and frequently exposes us to trouble. Do not ever think that I do, ever.”

He is not certain why he had said it. Why he had apologized. After all, he does not simply apologize. Not to anyone. Not for anything.

However, after the most recent catastrophe barely averted––and neither of them emerging from it unscathed––the words had simply escaped. The words he had received in turn… he cannot believe them. A light? In him of all elves? No, a light there is in Legolas and in Celeborn and Galadriel and in Glorfindel himself. But a light within the Great Elven-king Thranduil, the faithless woodland sprite?

He simply cannot believe it…

And yet to say otherwise would be to call Glorfindel a liar, and he will not insult him in that manner. Not when Glorfindel is nothing if not honest almost to a fault.

Fortunately, he does not have reason or opportunity to decide upon a way to dance around his disbelief, to speak what he believes to be the truth. Instead, he is caught off guard by the other stepping closer and resting his chin on his shoulder.

He tenses at first, not quite having expected the action… but after a moment he relaxes, and that not completely unfamiliar feeling threatens to bubble to the surface again, the feeling that he has so long pushed down… But, perhaps if only a little, perhaps if only this once, he allows it.

He allows his mask to crack, his pretenses to fall away, with no one else to see it except for the one person he knows will not judge him for his moment of weakness.

Posture losing its usual rigidity, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before exhaling.

“I am… glad for your presence,” he says after several long moments.

From their first meeting when Thranduil had been angry at the world and ashamed of his scars and all but ready to give up on everything. When the other had pulled him back from the brink, reminded him that all was not lost, helped him to adjust… to now and every other time that he has almost lost himself to despair or to anger or to the winter that seems ever to lurk in his heart…

“Truly… You cannot know the difference you have made…”

“It was never meant to come to ours.” It was not uttered bitterly, for truly the Lord Glorfindel had no trace of bitterness in his bones after all of these millennia, but it was still said so mournfully that it might have broken any listener’s heart. Had Haldir ever been told the story? Surely lays were still sung often enough that they had undoubtedly reached the very borders of hidden Lorien, but the golden lord wondered whether enough truth was in these pretty ballads, these poems written by those thereafter who dreamed of the Elder Days and the city that had been lost to time, rather than by anyone who had been there. Haldir yet was young. Had he come to understand, yet, how terrible that final day had been? That ashen sunrise, burned red by dragonflame? The morning, greeted by the alarum bells and the orc war drums?

Nearby, a fountain trickled sweetly. It was the height of the Imladris summer, pleasantly warm but not too hot, the scent of blossoms on the hazy air, clouds gathering above dark and billowing, to gift to them an evening storm. What dark memories, lingering to taint a beautiful day, but it had been a beautiful summer day the last day prior, too, festival lights dangling from windows and from archways, festival banners blowing in the wind. “Ah,” Glorfindel breathed, closing his eyes in grief, “but we were happy, Captain. We were so very happy, and our happiness was our doom.” For in their revelry they had been set upon, betrayed by one most trusted; the attack had come too swiftly and too numerous to mount a more proper defence, and festival joy had turned to screaming, then. Happiness, to immeasurable despair.

And Gondolin had fallen.

At length, sky-blue eyes reopened, and the Elf-Lord’s lips pulled into a grim smile despite the pain he still felt keenly. He rested a hand on the marchwarden’s shoulder, and gave it a small squeeze, before leaning close to rest his forehead against the other ellon’s own. “May your kingdom never suffer the same fate as mine, and may your loved ones be with you until the end, as mine were not fated to be.”

Certainly, though he is young, he has heard the tales of Gondolin, of that fair city besieged by all that was foul, of that bright city, extinguished by fire and darkness, and many a great elf with it. Despite any telling of it he had heard from even the most skilled of storyweavers, however, it could not have prepared his heart to hear such sorrow in the Golden Lord’s voice or to see it in the way he seems almost to dim. 

That one so warm and bright and wonderful could ever have suffered so terribly is a tragedy of itself, and the unfairness of it does not escape Haldir. Never has he heard one ill word of Glorfindel, yet how many burdens had been placed upon his shoulders, how many woes handed to him that he had been told to endure?

Yet, never had he ever seen that smile waver.

Until now.

So, when Glorfindel leans in as he does, though rather unused to such affectionate gestures––aside from Orophin on occasion and Rúmil even less so––he does not shy away from it. No, he stays exactly where he stands and, after one faltering moment, he brings a hand up to rest upon the other’s back.

“… The very thought of Lórien overrun… of the mallorn-trees ablaze… of my brothers lost to me… It pains me almost more than I can bear… I cannot even begin to imagine your pain…”

There he hesitates, his brow furrowing as he considers before he decides.

I heard you once got your arse handed to you and ran through the woods naked. Bit embarrassing! Is that true?

The rather ignominious events surrounding his death are not a secret. They are not even quiet, instead having been passed from those who had been present at the time, on to others and then to others and then to still more, and now it is very likely immortalized in tomes of Elven history, if not also in songs––though he has not yet heard any. Small miracles.

So if this stranger thinks that sharp-tongued Saeros will burst into tears in front of him, or blush and tremble and stammer, he is so very terribly mistaken.

“How reassuring to know that your ears work when clearly either your wits are so sorely lacking that you had not the sense to consider that you might consult a text first, or your eyes are what are faulty that you could not read the text. If the latter, I offer my most sincere apologies; if the former, my condolences. Thought––it seems––is not a skill that everyone manages to develop.”

“Now, I have work to which I must attend, and I believe you have the tattered remnants of your dignity to pick up from the floor, thus it seems we are both far too preoccupied to continue this conversation. You will excuse me.”

And with that, Saeros takes up his books and his scrolls and retreats to his room, locking the door behind him, dropping everything in his arms onto his desk, and then going to lie down on his bed in the dark, suddenly not of the mood to see much of anything done…

There is another, however, who had witnessed the exchange and, his usually happy heart saddened by what he had seen, he goes and seeks out the Golden Lord, the first one he can think of to tell besides his own king. He does not think Saeros would appreciate were he to go to Thranduil about it. 

Of course. He may not appreciate him going to Glorfindel either.

“Ahh… Lord Glorfindel… ?” he starts when at last he finds the other.

For once seeming rather sheepish, the minstrel rubs his neck and avoids looking at him for a long moment before at last tearing his gaze from the floor.

“Might you spare me a word? It’s… It’s about Saeros…”

"Just breathe..." The Golden Lord sat carefully down next to the younger ellon, rubbing his back in smooth circles.

He had said too much. Made one too many wry rejoinders, even if only under his breath, even if only barely loud enough to be heard.

No words uttered by him had even possessed their former sharpness, only (fairly) good-natured humor. He did not think that they were out of line. Why, he had even been fairly certain that he had seen amusement in the King’s eyes with a few of them! And yet, apparently, there was one within the King’s retinue who––with his last remark––had taken grave offense.

No sooner had the words been spoken than the other ellon had sprung to his feet with an angered shout and, furious beyond thought, had seized him by the front of his tunic and pulled him from his seat, swearing that he had heard enough and that the younger had a desperate need to be taught to hold his tongue.

Not again. Not again. Not again. was the only thought that he’d had as a panicked cry had escaped him and he’d tried to shield himself with his arms.

Somewhere beyond the sound of his racing heart and his breaths––far too quick to do much more than cause him dizziness––there had been a shout of ‘Enough!’ and then only moments later ‘Release him!’ had been commanded by another voice.

He knows not what else was said or done, only that he had been rather unceremoniously dropped to the floor and his first instinct had been to scramble for the wall, placing his back to it before practically curling in on himself, arms once more protectively over his head.

He does not know how long passes before the quiet voice urges him to ‘Just breathe’, before the warm presence sits beside him, before a gentle hand begins to rub soothing circles on his back.

It is not immediate, but slowly, his breathing becomes less erratic, more measured, less shallow. The trembling, however, lessens only very little and as more rational thought returns to him, tears well in his eyes thinking that he has not only embarrassed himself with this elfling-like scene, but that he has no doubt disappointed and angered the King as well.

“I– I am s-sorry,” he stammers at last, not moving but to shake his head. “F-forgive me. I beg of you. Please… Please d-do not send me back or away from here. I will do better. I swear that I will!”

“No one is going to send you back, Saeros. Where would we send you, anyway? Back to Mandos’ Halls? I do not think so.” The older ellon kept up the gentle circles on Saeros’ trembling back, his tone soft and soothing and kind as he spoke. After a few long moments, he shuffled so that he could take Saeros more into his arms, protectively and comforting. As ever, he had a pleasant scent around him; the smell of summer, of sunlight upon the faces of a field of wildflowers. And he was warm, so very warm. His arms were strong and safe and s a f e, and he held on without judgement, without trying to move away. “No one is going to harm you, or send you anywhere. I swear it.” Others in the room were standing in shock at the scene, not having expected to see the Woodland King’s newest young councillor all but c o l l a p s e, in tears and quaking. Glorfindel paid them little heed, all of his attention diverted to his frightened charge. “Deep breaths, that’s it. Let’s get your collar –” He trailed off, pulling back only enough to make sure the young ellon’s collar and robes were loose for easier breathing, then he drew him close again, speaking soothingly. “That’s it. You are not going anywhere. You are staying right here, with me, until you feel able to stand, alright?” One handmaiden brought over a glass of water, and offered it down to them, and Glorfindel shifted them both slightly so that he was able to take it, and so that Saeros would be able to drink. Gently, he brought it to Saeros’ lips. “Sip this, nice and slowly.” Haldir had already ordered the Guards out of the room, and left himself to give them some privacy, so it was just the two of them and the Elvenking now. No one else to see the fallout.

For once, as soon as warm arms had encircled him, bringing him closer, Saeros does not pull away from the contact. In fact, he leans into it, almost clinging to the other as he fights to stop the trembling, to get his breath. How foolish he must look!

And yet, the words of the Golden Lord had comfort him more than any could possibly know. That the reassurance––that he will not be sent away or returned to the halls of grim Mandos––is repeated and expounded upon, that Saeros believes him is perhaps what allows him to regain some level of control. Enough at least, not to continue to stubbornly cling when the other starts to pull away to fix his collar before holding him once more. That he complies when Glorfindel resettles them and holds the glass of water to his lips.

Lifting one hand to take the glass––though he finds that he is still weak enough after that episode that Glorfindel still must help him––he does as he is instructed, taking a few measured sips from the glass. As Glorfindel likely had hoped, the cool water seems to have a calming effect, and he ventures to speak once more.

“… Thank you.”

After a brief but grateful glance up at Glorfindel, he at last chances to turn his gaze to the other occupant of the room only to look away once more, wishing that he had not looked at all.

There is his king, now standing before them, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed as he regards them with a frown. That he does not straight away fly into apologies once more should no doubt be a testament to the toll the brief ordeal had taken on him and how tired he now finds that it had left him.

But, had Saeros been more himself at the moment, perhaps he would have noted that rather than disapproval or scorn focused upon him, the king’s squinting was born of concern as he studies his young counsellor. When the other elf had seized him, Thranduil had immediately rebuked the aggressor, thankfully before matters had escalated and physical harm was done.

Of course, Thranduil knows all too well that physical harm is not the worst that can torment a person. And judging by this reaction, no doubt the mental and emotional harm was far higher than whatever superficial damage he might have dodged. Maybe even more than Thranduil could understand.

After all, the King knows well the tale of Saeros.

He’d had some knowledge of it even before the lost elf had wandered into his forest, but after… Well, he had read the account of it once more that he would know or, at least, that he would know as much as he could for having not been there.

And he had read all of it. That the there had been a confrontation with Túrin––largely caused by Saeros––in the dining hall, leaving the elf injured. That Saeros had intended, with a weapon, to ambush Túrin the next day. That Túrin had bested him even still. That the mortal had then taken matters far further than they should ever have gone, stripping Saeros naked and then threatening him at sword-point to run through the woods, chasing after him on horseback ever-ready with his blade.

That, terrified, Saeros had made a leap that he likely would never have attempted otherwise… and the attempting had been his death…

‘ So he ended his life in Doriath and long would Mandos hold him,’ that part of the tale had wrapped up, so very neatly in contrast to the body it described as having broken upon the rocks… So very similar to another, though the cause itself was quite different… and Thranduil’s eyes dart to Glorfindel, as much for reassurance of the other’s presence, as to ask without words what he should do…

Should he leave? Should he remain? Should he say something? Should he not?

Though he had himself, not so long ago, held an inconsolable Marchwarden of Lórien until he’d shed enough tears over the death of his brothers that he had, mercifully, drifted to sleep… still Thranduil had felt so out of place, so uncertain. What little time has passed has been no sooner to change that then the many years prior had managed to do so.

But surely Glorfindel would know, would he not?