The Silence That Lingers

by xuanzxns

Summary:

The Sun sets on both sides of the Sea.
But it rises too, doesn't it?

Bridges built are bridges burnt. Choices made, the Other Side awaits.

Sometimes home doesn't feel like home, sometimes the stars wished upon disappear into daylight.

Alternatively,
The last of the elves arrive in the Undying Lands.
Ecthelion has cast shadows, cast burdens, how heavy is the burnt of hope to bear?
Thranduil cannot put words to what he has been feeling, aren't whispers louder in the silence?
Glorfindel searches for home, but there is much else to find, who is he to become?

Or,
Same idiots. Intense pining. Softer suffering.
On the road to heal, this time around.

Notes:

Phew, here's the start of part two!
I cannot put into words how grateful I am to everyone who has read The Words I Never Said, and now, to all those who are willing to read this one as well.
2020 has come and gone, but I'm still working on this, and honestly, I think writing this fic has helped me explore some of my own issues (which have been projected onto here whoops!) and helped me work on them. So I'm extremely grateful to everyone who has accompanied me on this journey so far.

I'll end by saying that the actual story has probably begun in actuality just now, so here are some new characters!
Hope you'll enjoy!

Chapter 1: One.

Summary:

On the Other Side of infinity, Ecthelion waits.
Beginnings don't feel so much like beginnings when nothing has truly ended.

Or,
Ecthelion makes friends and has epiphanies.

Notes:

Here's chapter one!
Introducing the other main character (in real-time!) and also his friends whom I had too much fun writing. Sometimes, the only way to get rid of a writer's block is to not write angst huh?
Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy reading!

1.

 

But love is impossible and it goes on
despite the impossible. You’re the muscle
I cut from the bone and still the bone
remembers, still it wants (so much, it wants)
the flesh back, the real thing...

― Ada Limón, from Bright Dead Things, "In a Mexican Restaurant I Recall How Much You Upset Me" 

 

It was at dawn on a winter’s day, that he had awoken with his eyes glazed in warmth, the corners of his lips tilted up in the tell-tale hint of a smile, and somewhere in the center of his chest, or perhaps coursing through his veins, had been hope . 

The hope of something was coming his way, and that time around, he would hold on with all his might, and he would make the sun shine brighter in the sky that blazed blue. 

He had woken with dreams dripping from his eyes, and he had looked forth to the sea, and almost, in the not-quite-so-clear light of day, he had spied the vision of white sails emerging from the Light. 

He had dreamt a dream of the past, of what had once been home.

And for once, it had not woken him up in cold sweat, by a pool of tears, silver eyes and silver metal, his lungs bursting with the water he had once swallowed, knuckles white and fingers freezing, shallow fountains stained in wine-red of blood and the ivory of walls, burning, blackened, lost. 

 

Instead, he had been offered refuge in a cherished memory, dangling legs over city walls, twilight hours when the stars would begin to shine, and in his arms, the Sun. 

Laurë with the flying hair that he would refuse to tie back, and he would still tuck his chin over the crown of a golden head, because there was no helping it, not when the winds over the mountainside sniped at their fingers, not when Laurefindil fit so perfect in the folds of his arms. 

And when Laurefindil smiled, the nightlights reflected in the darkened indigo of his eyes, the curve of his lips was gentle like the crescent moon, sharper at the right and dipping into a dimple, he would have given the world up for him. 

 

And he had. 

Though the world had not ever been quite his to give away, or to hoard, so the most he could have given over to him was his life. 

 

And he had, wholeheartedly. 

A loyalty unwavering, a belief so hopeful, naïve, foolish. 

But to him, no world without Laurë would ever be worth saving. And so, to save the world, he had given his life up for Laurefindil, without a second thought.  

 

Even when Laurefindil had stared up at him, his eyes piercing as icicles, grey as storm clouds, but as deep and blue as the ocean, when he had begged with words as stern as orders, when his voice had finally cracked to a whisper, when he had been desperate, and when tears had been spilt and had clung to his jaw, all he had done was to wipe them with gloved fingers. 

He had cast the burden of his own death over Laurefindil’s strong, shaking shoulders, in the hopes of letting him live, for Gondolin’s sake and for his own , and he had cradled his face tenderly, and crushed their lips together, a kiss tasting of blood and teeth, and the salt of tears. 

 

It is enough if one of us makes it out , he had said, and before he could have spoken, Laurefindil had shaken his head, determined, and he had let his eyes trail down the stubborn set of his jaw, no , with a finality that he hadn’t had the will to deny, even if it would mean to lie. 

Fingers steepled around the singed collar of his undershirt, Laurefindil had pulled their foreheads together, letting them breathe as one, noses brushing, the tone of his voice had betrayed none of the fear that was crystal clear in his unwavering gaze. 

He could not be blamed, for reaching his arm, twisted if not broken, to card through the golden mane that had given Laurefindil his name, one last time. And he could not be blamed too, for letting his fingers brush the skin of his cheeks, warm despite the winds that had been let in through the broken walls, or for wiping the tears that had leaked from his eyes, or for pressing his lips to the corner of a taken-aback Laurefindil’s mouth. 

 

Tie your hair back, Laurë, he had breathed out against the skin of his jaw.

And then his time had come, with the roar of the Balrog, and the crack of thunder that must have been it’s fiery whip, and he had pushed him away from him fiercely, trusting Laurefindil to catch his balance and to not fall back into the rubble, and he had clenched his fingers to fists, squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t look back. 

 

He did not know whether Laurefindil had stood there and watched him fight, watched him fall and drown in the bitter waters of his own fountain, or whether Idril had found him and dragged him far away even if he had refused to budge.

But as he had felt the world fade into the haze of what he had realised was death, all he had hoped for was a world where Laurefindil would have lived, where he would have been a beacon of blinding hope, the will to fight and to live, as he had been for Ecthelion all this while. 

And so, from the moment that Ecthelion had breathed in the searing cold wind, and had been stung by the salt it carried, returned anew from the Halls of Waiting, he had begun to wait. 

The Halls were emptier than they had been when he had wandered it, though darker, the aura heavier and hazier, as if each corner of these endless corridors held secrets and skeletons, the overwhelming energy of grudges, and of regrets. 

An Age had passed, he had been told, the moment he had laid one foot across the threshold of life and death, since his soul had arrived in the realm of Mandos. His companions, brothers-in-arms, friends had chosen either to be re-embodied in the Blessed Lands, or had Healed, and had returned to their lives in Valinor, living as they would have, had they not marched forth during the Flight of the Noldor, 

 

He had been told that Laurefindil had been re-born, and sent already, as a child across the Sea, to be Glorfindel of Gondolin, who would be soon of the Grey Havens, of Lindon, and finally, of Imladris. 

And reeling from the realisation, that Laurefindil too had died, he had single-handedly defeated a Balrog at Cirith Thoronoth, and had saved those who had fled from the ruins of Gondolin, but he had fallen soon after, dragged by his hair into the chasm of fire, to death, Ecthelion had almost stepped back into the silence of Mandos. 

He had been nursed back to a semblance of healing in the Halls of Nienna, the maiar of Estë, spirits of grey and silver had flitted about from one corner to another in his eyes, and once more he had been lulled to a different kind of sleep, to seek refuge in the realm of Lorien, lost amidst memories, that would now only be dreams.

 

And then on, after he had walked out again, feeling as spectre still though he looked to have been remade, still clinging to the past for which there was no place in the present, and when the sunlight had passed through him, his grip had weakened to clouds of smoke, and when he had walked forth into life, the Other Side had held no shadows, only mind-numbing warmth. 

 

Ecthelion, at this point, was no stranger to waiting. 

 

And, waiting, by now, came easy to him, and easier still was to swallow his fears for what had been laid for far, further away in the course of the future, to smile when their ( his ) friends would speak of Laurefindil, of how he would come back to Ecthelion one day.

They seemed so certain of it, Egalmoth who spoke of Laurefindil as if he was still with them, Rog waggling his eyebrows and teasing mercilessly as he used to back when they had been younger still in Gondolin, and Duilin who, predictably as the voice of reason, was the only one who sided with Ecthelion, and chided the others to not get so carried away. 

And it would seem that their hope, their reassurances, had eased his heart so it wouldn’t beat quite as thundering, and he had grown to smile when they spoke of Laurefindil, than losing himself in the spirals of fears he had never had the will or words to speak of to any of them, or to himself, it would seem.

 

These silences that lingered, they never hurt, not so much.

 

Over a course of almost an Age, from when he had been let out from the Halls a second time and to now, evening in the time of the elves when the Sea had begun to call, and everyday weary elves would arrive tearfully, hopefully, eyes alight with the vision of golden that were the Undying Lands, the vast expanse of sapphire sea dotted with flecks of white, ships gliding with sails unfurled. 

When the arrival of Elrond Eärendilion had been announced, accompanying Lady Galadriel and Olórin, and the Halfling Ringbearer, having trusted Arda over to the Men, in peace for as long as how it would last; Ecthelion’s heart had leapt to his throat. 

 

Breaths shallow, he had stood with Idril’s grip on his arm tightened, she holding him upright and he her, his heart swelling with hope and with fear. 

Of what he had always awaited, of what he had always dreaded, they were two sides of the same coin that he had flipped once and was still in the air, having given him no answers. 

He had burdened Laurefindil with that of his life laid down, and now, when he had been born again and had grown again, Ecthelion had still chained him with the weight of his hopes, that would undoubtedly come crashing down once he would return to him. 

 

Not that Ecthelion knew if Laurë would return to him , or whether he would return changed, as he had been remade. 

 

Cast into a new body that Ecthelion hadn’t ever chanced upon, and in his life across the Sea that Ecthelion hadn’t witnessed, in the course of that, having shouldered more burdens: of the city that had once been his home already burnt, and of his death, hurtling down a fiery chasm, and of his re-birth, balancing the expectations and identities and the power that had been forced without choice into the frail build of a child. 

 

Ecthelion, having thought every night of Laurefindil and his new life, had come to realise that there was no glory in what he had been sent back for. 

Laurefindil, with a soul brighter than Ecthelion’s but just as weary, had been hailed a hero and had been given in promise to a darkened Arda, as a promise of hope. The task forced into his hands was not of prestige, but another burden, and Ecthelion could only hope that Laurefindil had not thrown himself to the world, breaking and joining and constructing himself with the sole purpose of being who was needed, rather than himself. 

 

The last thing Ecthelion would want was to hammer another nail into the coffin Laurefindil would have willingly sealed himself into, to be another person who wanted him to be someone ; he would not have Laurë lost to the world he had been given to. 

And so, as he had waited and waited, he had taught himself to cast away Laurë, who had been a memory Ecthelion had been clinging to all this while, the ghost he wouldn’t let rest in peace. 

And he had begun to await whoever would return to Aman, even if it was not to him, even if it would not be the idea of the long lost past he had tethered all hopes upon, even if Laurefindil re-embodied would look at him with those same ice-blue eyes and even if his gaze would hold unfamiliarity and not the honey-gold warmth. 

 

Ecthelion would not hold him back, not task him with piecing a new mask that would hold fragments of the past, he would let him be, he would let him live, even if it wasn’t the idealised life Ecthelion had once imagined for them together . 

He had resigned himself to waiting, but not hoping so ardently, so eagerly. 

Ecthelion was no stranger to waiting. 

And he was content to wait even longer, and that was what he had once said to Elrond not so long after he had arrived, when they had been talking of the past, the one not so far long and another lifetimes ago.

Whatever Laurefindil wanted him to be, that was he would strive for, rather than clinging to memories, to ghosts that were better off let go of, Ecthelion had told him, though his eyes had been turned toward the Sea once more. 

 

And Elrond, he had smiled, “Is there nothing you want back from him? Or are you so wholeheartedly willing to become whoever he needs, or rather, does not need? Would that not make him guilty of doing to you what you are so determined to not do to him?” 

 

Ecthelion, caught off-guard, had met his eyes, startled by the intensity in the stormy grey of his gaze, and also by how he had caught on exactly to the question he had never been courageous enough to answer for himself. 

“Ah, that,” he had murmured rather eloquently, reduced to feeling like a foolish youth before Elrond, who had seen through him and had been so gentle at prodding for answers that should have been figured out already. 

Ecthelion had somehow found it in himself to compose his half-coherent thoughts into words, “It is him who matters more,” he had thought out loud, and noting how Elrond’s brows had furrowed, he had quickly added. 

“I mean that it has always been him who has been burdened by hopes and wants. And besides, I would only have to step away once, for only one person, when he has had to do it for far longer than I, and for so many more people;

“I have healed, I have lived unburdened by any duties in Valinor for almost as long as he has in Arda, for the second time. It is only fair that he gets to live without being weighed down by the expectations of one more person.” 

 

The corners of Elrond’s lips had curled up in the ghost of a smile, though it seemed mirthless, but not quite so, “And Lord Ecthelion, have you not considered that maybe Glorfindel too has memories of you, that this lifetime has been one so utterly disjointed from your past in Gondolin? From you?” 

“Have you considered that he might have waited for you as long as you have for him?” 

Elrond had spoken with a tone that was amicable, nothing out of the ordinary, and he had reached forward to set the mug of tea he had been cradling on the table, looking up at Ecthelion through his lashes. 

 

And Ecthelion? 

Ecthelion had promptly lost his breath, heart leaping to his throat more swiftly than it had when he had first expected Laurefindil to arrive with the rest of Elrond’s household, and he had struggled to swallow it back down before he had whipped his head to look the half-elven lord in the eye.   

His heart had crawled its way out into his trembling voice, into the hoarse whisper he had managed to plead with Elrond for answers.

And Elrond, who had looked to be bathed in the evening light that flowed freely in the pavilion they were seated, had been kind and merciful, but he had spoken in riddles, that Ecthelion whose mind was still spinning was determined not to lose himself in answering. 

 

He had let a few nights go sleepless, until nights spent awake were no longer so out of the ordinary, and then, he had begun to seek quietude by the seaside, by darkness and by daylight, to clear his mind and listen to the echoes of forgotten hopes and buried fears. 

Until once more, he had learnt to walk forth with his heart armoured and held in place, his decisions written but not set in stone, and Ecthelion, had stood once more in the pleasant warmth, shadows put past him. 

Ecthelion, who held his head high but his jaw clenched, because there were thoughts that orbited around his mind that weighed him down, whose hopes inverted would become fears, who smiled and smiled and spoke sweet words, but bit his lip and resigned himself to the silence of waiting, and still, waited. 

It had been a few weeks before the festival of Nost Na Lothion, when the evening sky of mid-spring had been melting from brightest hue of cornflower blue to indigo, and the streets had been bustling with a lively crowd, that Ecthelion had stood with his arms crossed, as Rog tried tinkering with the lantern. 

Egalmoth and Duilin had promised to join them at the town square, and Rog had volunteered to invite a friend along, and Ecthelion had agreed, because well, it wasn’t that he had ever been offered a choice. 

The festival season was yet to start, the breeze still had carried with it the chill of winter, and Ecthelion had groaned with the last of his patience exhausted, more so because his cloak had been too light to spare him the assault of the wind rather than Rog’s sudden interest in fixing a faulty lantern that a dark-eyed elleth had been trying to hang up.

 

Knowing Rog, in all probability, it had been more to do with the fact that he had been scouring for an opportunity to earn her favour rather than a genuine burst of goodwill, and that was annoying furthermore. 

 

“Lord Rog, I’m afraid the issue is not one that can be fixed,” she said in all politeness, though her smile suggested she too was infuriated more by his needless efforts than the malfunctioning lantern. 

But still, she sighed fondly as she attempted to wrestle the thing from his prying fingers, “It is no matter, I’m sure there are others that can be put to use instead.” 

 

Rog had scowled, and Ecthelion had snorted at how disappointed he looked, “Are you sure? I could look into it….” he started, though his eyes still followed the defective piece she tucked into a cart on the side. 

 

“I appreciate the effort!” she had broken in hastily, “But it’s really alright, and maybe I could treat you to lunch sometime later for your efforts?”     

 

Ecthelion had sighed in relief, and had promptly dragged Rog away once he had finished deliberating on the time and place for the date, though he had poked him in the abdomen quite forcefully for stalling. 

“Why must I always be the one hanging around as you flirt with every ellon and elleth in the radius?” he grumbled, and Rog had laughed freely, cheeks still dusted crimson. 

“As payback?” his friend had mused, running a hand through dark curls that he had tied half-way into a loose braid, “Remember how you would make me distract everyone when you dragged Laurefindil out for a snog at Aredhel’s parties?” Ecthelion had rolled his eyes, as Rog had continued listing his grievances from the past. 

“Also for that one time, when you fooled around with me and Egalmoth in the fountains, and kissed Laurefindil too passionately in the Healing Wards when you were delirious? You know I had to watch that right? My foot was broken, and my bed was angled perfectly for optimal viewing, can you imagine my suffering?” 

 

Ecthelion shoved him light-heartedly, “In my defense, I was the one who had to appease Laurë after he was angry with me for being so ‘affectionate’ in ‘public’ and that was only because you wouldn’t shut up about having to see us together!” 

 

Rog suppressed a laugh at that, and with renewed vigour continued his tirade, “Oh well, what about when His Majesty lectured me about decorum, because I had to so graciously take your place while you and Laurefindil had been f--” 

Ecthelion felt his ears burn, and was just going to hiss at him to shut up . 

“Rog! Thel!” Egalmoth called out just beyond the street-crossing, waving his arms so frantically that Duilin narrowly avoided being swatted in the face, and relieved at the interruption, Ecthelion waved back with twice as energetically, making sure to send his hand flying into Rog’s face.

 

“You know, Ecthelion, it’s really obvious you did that on purpose,” Rog muttered as he rubbed exaggeratedly at his cheek, “Most of the time, you turn away if I call out for you.” 

 

Ecthelion patted him on the shoulder, “Some things are meant especially for you and only you, my dearest Rog.” he replied in the most saccharine tone he could manage. 

In response, Egalmoth feigned a gag, falling dramatically into Duilin’s arms, while their self-proclaimed voice of reason shushed them in the midst of pushing their more theatrically inclined friend off himself, though he didn’t voice a single complaint about how Egalmoth still tucked his chin over the archer’s shoulder.    

 

“So insincere,” Rog said with a shake of his head, and Ecthelion couldn’t help the smile slide effortlessly onto his face, feeling at ease with his friends by his side as they dug into a meal put together by wares bought from the street-side stalls. 

Rog’s friend had already been seated by the time Ecthelion had arrived after a quick stroll through the street-stalls, where he had been planning to buy himself a new cooking pot. 

He had looked up at Ecthelion with gleaming amber eyes, a smile sharp and playful already gracing his face, “If it isn’t Ecthelion of the Fountain!” he declared, and then with a gentler tilt the grin added, “I have heard so much of you, from a friend dear to us both.” 

 

Ecthelion felt himself smiling back quite easily, “Only good things, I hope?” 

 

“The best, undoubtedly. He has sung me praises of you, he was very enamoured with you.” came the reply, and Ecthelion feigned a glower in Rog’s direction that lacked any real heat. “Well, for our friend’s sake, I hope you will continue to know only the best of me.”

 

As the evening had proceeded, about half an hour into talking, Ecthelion realised he hadn't caught the name of Rog’s friend, though he had laughed freely with him nonetheless, unable to help that his sharp wit was perfectly matched with Ecthelion’s own sense of dry humour. 

 

Rog’s friend, whatever his name was, was lean and lithe, and he had made himself home in their little group without a moment’s awkwardness, having warmed them all to his teasing demeanor and expressive manner of speaking, with flying hands and glowing eyes. 

He had returned from practice, he told them, pointing at the sabre that had been strapped over his back, and an assortment of daggers sheathed in a belt slung around his hips. He was dressed too for sparring, a loose tunic and leggings black in colour, lined with silver, and his auburn hair had been tied back into a knot, strands falling into his eyes when he ran fingers through.   

And now, the topic had shifted and finally alighted at the question of the practice itself, for the Spring Festival celebrations that would be lasting the whole month. And Rog’s friend was telling them about the complaints he received over his knife-play, which incidentally was his role, a solo at the opening act to accompany the flame-throwers, something relating to acrobatics and daggers.     

 

“Listen, I don’t mean to brag but, they don’t have anything over my skills with a knife,” he was saying, amber eyes alight, “You learn things like this better on the streets, with experience, than in Valinor. And in the Edain kingdoms in the Third Age, seriously, there were more crime-rings than craft-guilds, knives are better for stealth, of course, but also for tricks, and I’ve learnt from the best.”

 

Duilin was nodding along, “I’m more of a bowman myself, but, Valinor doesn’t teach weaponry for survival, and you are definitely right when you say that the standard isn’t half as high. I learnt archery on the Ice, for hunting, and whatever little I knew before that, wouldn’t be half as effective in a real fight.”

 

Egalmoth leaned forward, eyeing their new friend with interest, “You’re playing a part in the performance?” he asked and then pursing his lips, “Wait, isn’t that scheduled the week of the spring festival?” 

 

“Egalmoth, didn’t uh... he just say that the performance is for the Spring Festival?” Ecthelion replied swiftly, and as Egalmoth opened his mouth to argue, Rog’s friend turned to Ecthelion, his eyes sparking with mischief. 

 

“You don’t know my name do you?” his face was bright with a sharp grin that bared his teeth, as he pointed the tip of his fork at Ecthelion accusingly. 

 

Rog laughed out loud, “What a shame Ecthelion! But let’s make introductions again, for the benefit of this Lord of the Fountain, eh?” 

 

Ecthelion too was laughing by then, shrugging apologetically under the playful glare of amber eyes, when Egalmoth, murmured as if deep in thought. 

“That means the last arrivals from Arda will be here for the celebrations too.” he mused, and counting on his fingers took their names, “There’s Laurefindil of course, and the Woodland King, and Lord Celeborn of Lorien, and Elrond’s advisor....Erestor?” 

 

Rog’s friend froze as he heard the last name, his cheerful expression shuttered abruptly and the brightness of his flaming gaze flickered as if it had suddenly been doused.  Duilin looked worriedly at him before his eyes flitted back to Ecthelion, who had quietened in a similar manner. 

But unlike him, however, Ecthelion recovered swiftly, shaking his head reassuringly to ward off his friends’ concerns, and then, he too studied the other silent ellon, who for a few moments seemed to be completely disjointed from their little group, and from the bustle of the marketplace as a whole. 

 

Rog’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet as he spoke, “Elcallon? Are you alright?”

 

At the sound of his name being called out, Elcallon startled and instantaneously the same grin as before was plastered onto his face, though Ecthelion noted that it did not quite reach his eyes, the abruptness was quite disconcerting; Ecthelion didn't think he had seen anyone slip in and out of a facade this easily. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Elcallon spluttered, the tone of his voice was smooth as a trickle of stream over stones, but his words were shaky as they fell from his lips, “I just... was lost in thought for a moment, but I’m alright!” 

 

Egalmoth looked guilty, his usual enthusiasm subdued, “I’m sorry if it was because of something I said……” he started, but Elcallon interrupted him with a vigorous shake of his head. 

“of course not, there’s nothing to apologise for,” his golden eyes were luminous, and making them glow brighter still was the light of the lanterns that hung overhead, “I, er, have some history with one of them.” he mumbled. 

Feeling their eyes on him, especially the weight of Ecthelion’s gaze, who studied him intently, wondering whether he would have had anything to do with Laurefindil, Elcallon added on without missing a beat, looking visibly flustered. 

“Not Glorfindel,” he assured, looking Ecthelion in the eye, “And not King Thranduil or Lord Celeborn, of course.” 

His voice was smaller, and hurtled to an uneasy silence after he spoke the name of the last elf, “Erestor. That’s him, Lord Elrond’s advisor.”

 

“We were―’ he paused abruptly, and inhaling through clenched teeth, “Erestor and I knew each other, before, well, not anymore, but we had been...you could say, we were  well-acquainted with one another.”   

 

Ecthelion caught on to how his breath was shallower when he spoke Erestor’s name, as if it had been something that had come easy to him once upon a time, but now, after having gone so long without speaking of him, it seemed that the familiarity of the name had felt foreign and unwelcome to his tongue.  

It was, similar, somewhat, to what Ecthelion himself felt about Laurë, who had crossed already over to the Other Side years before he had emerged from the Halls, who he, in a lifetime that felt still like yesterday, had held onto, and sung songs to. 

 

Laurefindil, no, Glorfindel , who would return to him once more, he who, even after the passing of these years, held his heart, and who Ecthelion had once more let himself accept as he who would complete him fi nally .

Laurefindil, who he had died for and Glorfindel, who he was awaiting, forever and always, and who he would love, in one form or another; and even if he had been broken once and remade from fragments that the Valar themselves had blessed, their feä were still made of kindred flames, and Ecthelion had been, through lifetimes, tied to only him. 

The way Elcallon spoke of this Erestor, someone that both Elrond and Celebrían, as well their sons mentioned frequently, was distinct from how they did. His eyes had not met any of theirs when he had spoken of Erestor, giving Ecthelion the idea that they had parted on less than ideal or even bitter terms. 

And with that, in the softness, and the aching warmth that dripped so evidently from the tone of his murmur, so contrasted from how he had been speaking to them a while before, Ecthelion felt that he could trust the inkling of thought that told him that Elcallon and Erestor might have been similar to what he and Laurë had been. 

That wasn’t to say that he was sure they had been lovers, that, of course was nothing he could have known, and neither something that was his business to ask about, but Ecthelion felt somewhere felt that whatever waters had run between them, had been coloured in the rose-tinted hue of something more than only friendship.

The conversation had been stifled to a murmur between a remorseful Egalmoth and Duilin who was trying to cheer him into his usual vibrant demeanor, now that Rog had quickly left to pay for the food that they had been eating. 

Somehow, the talk had been centred around Elcallon’s engaging story-telling, and now, with him quiet, it had all but faded to an uneasy silence. Ecthelion pushing the heavy weight of discomfort off himself, and stood up with a screech of his chair that made him cringe, but lifted the corners of Elcallon’s mouth into a half-smile. 

 

“I’m going to go get us all some dessert,” he announced, and Duilin shot him a grateful look, “Fruit yogurt is good for everyone isn’t it?”

 

He looked down pointedly at Elcallon and cocked his head, a silent gesture to accompany him, one that the other ellon nodded to before he stood to his feet and beckoned Ecthelion to lead the way. 

As they traversed the cobbled streets, Elcallon followed the outline of the sea with his eyes, staring in broken intervals at the gushing waves that shimmered faintly in the light of the stars and in the flickering lanterns that had been hung by the beach. 

 

“I stayed in Rivendell a while,” Elcallon breathed out, the start of a conversation that wasn’t quite as boisterous as the one before, but Ecthelion appreciated the quiet.  “It was for a brief stint of work, with Lady Celebrían, she’s a mastermind of politics, and there were matters to sort out, and she had invited me over to work with her.” 

 

“What did you do, back in Arda? If you don’t want me asking.” 

 

Elcallon huffed out a laugh, “You wouldn’t approve of it in Gondolin, or in Aman,” he said, “But I was a spy, an assassin too, depending on the need of the hour. I worked in the Mannish kingdoms, of course, I’m no kin-slayer.”

 

Ecthelion nodded, didn’t reply to what he had confessed to, and from the corner of his eyes, he saw that it had made Elcallon smile.  “What happened in Imladris?” he asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, but it was hard to keep the curiosity from bleeding in.  

 

“Ah, that was where I met Glorfindel,” he shrugged, and eyes twinkling, added in a cospirational tone, “He really was quite head-over-heels for you, you know? But then again, there were others who mooned over you quite more, Lord of the Fountain, there were altars in your name,” he snickered, “Drop a coin and make a wish, that sort of thing? The sculptures were a marvel though, most elven cities toward the coast had them, with fountains, though your name by itself was quite popular further north among Men.”

 

He was rambling, Ecthelion could tell, and Elcallon seemed to realise that soon enough and he sighed, looking very tired suddenly, as if the tirade from the evening had been just a mask he had fit himself into, and at the end of the day, he would remain weary, waiting. 

It made Ecthelion wonder whether he too was the same, but he did not dwell on the thought, as Elcallon spoke once more, the sharp angles of his face had been softened with nostalgia, “Glorfindel, he trusted easily, I think. Or maybe he was a master at pretending like he was; we would talk a lot in Rivendell, him and I and Lindir, you might know him from the weekly orchestra.

 

He puffed out a laugh, if Ecthelion didn’t know better, he would have thought it was choked with tears, “It felt good, to be trusted so soon, and to be among them, as if I had always been there.” 

 

But Ecthelion, having met Elcallon only that evening, did not know, in fact, know better, and so he reached a hand to squeeze his shoulder comfortingly. Elcallon startled at the touch and laughed out louder, “Eru, don’t look so down! It wasn’t that nobody else trusted me, my craft was based on earning trust you know.” he chided, patting Ecthelion’s hand, his eyes twinkled as he spoke again, more to himself, “It took some effort, but I got him in the end.” 

 

Ecthelion lost his filter at the most inopportune of moments, and let his mouth run before his mind could rein it in, “Erestor?” 

 

Elcallon froze once again for a moment, and then his eyes shone brighter than they had the entire evening, “Yes, Erestor.” he breathed out, and smiling added, “Glorfindel was of great help, and that was because you seemed to have put quite the effort in wooing him back in Gondolin.”

 

“He was a goner for me already,” Ecthelion shrugged, laughing, “Rog would tell you that I went out of my way ‘wooing’ him, as you say it, but truthfully, I was too afraid of losing him.” 

 

The moment quietened as they reflected upon their respective pasts, Elcallon of pavilions in Imladris and walks in the wilderness, of golden afternoons spent together that had come one after another until, they had become akin to broken promises and mountains of regret, and Ecthelion of dangling feet and white walls, steep drops and a crown of gold tucked under his chin, of blue skies that had darkened to grey. 

 

“Have you thought about what you’ll do once Glorfindel is here?” Elcallon’s voice broke through his thoughts, “I know what everyone says, that there’s no doubt he’ll come running straight into your arms, happily ever after. But I think it’s quite alright if there is something you are afraid of, there’s no telling what the future holds.”   

 

Ecthelion nodded, feeling strangely comforted at his words, because the truth was that he was afraid, what awaited Laurefindil this side of the sea was change. And with him coming back, remade, what awaited the pleasant monotony of Ecthelion’s second life too was overwhelming change, one that he would not predict; an idea of the future, if he would ever let himself sit and consider it, undoubtedly would be weighed down by hopes, and his own wishes, what he wanted was what he did not know for sure if he could ever have. 

So far, he had tried to keep the thoughts locked up in some dark corner of his mind, because the need of the hour, what Laurë would want of him, was infinitely paramount to whatever Ecthelion would have been hoping, and wanting , in all the years he had waited. 

 

In truth, if he would ever have admitted it to himself prior to Elcallon posing him a seemingly innocent question, he would have known that no matter how hard he could try, hope was a fickle being, and it had trickled out into any and every thought he would have given to the future.

For all he had promised himself about wanting to make sure Laurefindil, no , Glorfindel, would remain happy, find whatever healing he would have sought in the Undying Lands, at the end of the day, no matter what he had held onto otherwise, all Ecthelion hoped for, wanted , was for Laurefindil to find that healing, that happiness in him .  

 

With that realisation, he wondered if he had been better off waiting indefinitely, whether the time offered to him had been too short, whether there was yet much more for him to learn, of waiting and not wanting and not hoping . 

There were no words he could say so easily, not when it seemed as if the stars would begin to rain down on him any moment, for having lied to himself for so long, of having built himself up to be an embodiment of patience and detachment and selflessness, when all this time, he had been burdening Glorfindel with the hopes of having him return as Laurefindil , as his Laurë from fallen Gondolin. 

 

When all this time, without knowing of it, he had been craving for a chance at eternity, at being wanted back with a force rivalling that of the raging Sea that was now bringing Laurefindil― Glorfindel back to―

( Not to him, Glorfindel would return to Valinor, he would return changed, he had been remade.) 

 

And all this while, Ecthelion had been chasing hope, gripping at riddles that he had made out in his foolishness to be promises, and now, he stood, rooted , with the bite of winter still carried by the song of spring, looking beyond to the Sea, where there was nothing but the mist that had begun to gather at the shore, where he had dreamed the Sun into being by the force of his hope alone. 

 

Ecthelion was no stranger to waiting. 

Not now, when he had spent millenia waiting, dreaming and hoping, and deceiving himself, it was as if a thousand arrows were flying in the distance, and they would strike him, of course they would, but he had not budged, thinking himself invincible.

 

Ecthelion, now knew, that he had never been a stranger to hoping either, and now, his thoughts bursting like fireworks in his reeling mind, he thought it was a mirror of his last day in Gondolin. 

When, knowing he wouldn’t make it out alive, he had pierced his helmet into Gothmog’s chest, and they had both crashed into the fountain, and though pain had shot up his arms and his head had burst as he had crashed into the sharp edge, to him it had felt like a surge of strength, a strange euphoria. 

When he had dug his fingers, bloody and burnt into the plate of armour that was the Balrog’s chest, intent on ripping the vile creature apart piece by piece, and had beheld the doused core of its heart in euphoric glory. 

 

He had then, despite all odds and all rationality, imagined himself saved, having made it out, broken but still, breathing. He had hoped so fiercely, so fierce that his whole being had burnt, as if the fire he had doused in the waters of his fountain had by miracle blazed in his feä. 

He had, with his eyes fluttering shut, and his breaths shallow, dreamt himself awake, standing up and striding forward, his limbs drenched but his eyes on fire, walking and walking till he would have made his way over to the passage of safety, held in hope and griped with agony. 

 

Even in death, he had dreamt himself alive. 

And so, Ecthelion had blinded himself. 

He had let go, by choice, and had now found himself in the depths of vested hopes and indulgent dreams, and terrified, Ecthelion did not know whether he could, or whether he even wanted to, pull himself out. 

He turned to Elcallon, who seemed almost aghast and was watching Ecthelion with a look not unlike how Egalmoth, only minutes ago, had been. 

“I’m not sure.” he murmured, feeling tears pricking at his eyes, but his cheeks hurt with the smile he flashed at Elcallon. 

 

“You don’t need to answer me. Forget I even said anything.” Elcallon spoke rushed, his voice rang out in the eerie hush of the night.  

 

Ecthelion shook his head, “No, you’re right about what you said. I am afraid, but I’ve been telling myself I’m not, and that pretence has become second nature to me.” 

He inhaled deeply, the breath of cedarwood and the smell of the sea, a comforting scent that gave him courage to continue, “For so long, I’ve been pretending like I have gone past the point of wanting so many things for myself, that I have learnt to be patient and to be selfless. 

But, there is so much I want. I promised myself I would be what Laure― Glorfindel would need me to be, even when Elrond said that he had been waiting too, but,” his voice cracked pathetically, “I don’t know who I’m waiting for, I don’t know what he’ll be like and whether he will be the same person I loved so long ago.” 

“I have wanted so much, for so long. But now, I don’t know if I’ll ever have who I want. And I don’t know if I have spent all these years waiting for someone who is now only an idea, someone who lives only in my head because I have trapped him there for so long.” 

 

Ecthelion lifted a hand to his head, and sighed. 

It was as if Ecthelion had locked him up in some dark corner of his head, and thrown away the key; when all this while he had been telling himself that he had set Laurë of the past free. 

But yet, here was the truth he had buried so long ago, and only now uncovered, that he hadn’t ever let go of that hope he had started out with.

And still he was waiting, though now, there was a riot in his head demanding who it had been for all along.

 

Having thought that he had drowned the dreams and the expectations he had held of Glorfindel, sawed off the anchor that would not let the ship leave the dock, now, he had come to the realisation that he had always been afraid. 

Afraid of losing Laurefindil, as he had as a youth head-over-heels for his dearest friend, though now, as he stood as wiser and older, having died once and having lived again, still there was the selfish fear. 

All this thought had left him weary, but the question still lingered, he had been afraid of losing someone all this while, but what had ever given him the right to assume he hadn’t lost Laurë already? 

 

“Have I lost him already?” Ecthelion demanded, and some part of his mind wondered whether Elcallon would think him mad, spilling secrets to someone he had met only that evening.

But still, in a hoarse whisper, he continued to speak, “And who was he anyway? All this time, I’ve been holding onto the hope that Laurefindil will return to me exactly how he had been in Gondolin, when I had loved him, but now?”

 

“You know, I have been told that he has been waiting for me too.” he started, mellow, a smile blooming on his lips that made Elcallon step back warily, “That Glorfindel has been waiting, 

“And I never once thought about what I would do if the one who returns home, to me , is not the same person I have awaited an eternity for.”  

 

All this while, Ecthelion had been telling himself that he would step up to become whoever Laurefindil would need, that he would not burden him with his own hopes, would not force him to don another mask for Ecthelion to love. But as selfless and noble as his ideal had been, it had always been flawed and unrealistic; all this time he had never come to think of how Glorfindel , would be someone worlds, or rather lifetimes apart, whose identity would have been shaped along entirely different experiences, who would be nothing like his Laurefindil , even if he tried. 

 

And now, by virtue of having thought of Glorfindel as Laurë of the past all along, he had already buried him under a mountain of hopes, the hope of being the same ellon that he had loved once upon a time in now fallen Gondolin, who he had given everything up to protect, but who had died with him, and had now been reborn and had become Glorfindel, the stranger whom he had choked with all the might of his yearning, his expectations. 

 

His tears were shed as the rain too began to fall, a torrential downpour, a minor inconvenience that made the light of the lanterns flicker and those along the road hastily shut their shops and take cover, but to Elcallon, who watched with confoundment, it seemed as if the sky had heaved a sob and had begun to weep for Ecthelion.

 

“All this while, I have been waiting for Laurefindil,” Ecthelion said, his silver eyes glimmered as if they held Eärendil’s light, his tears like jewels, “I have been waiting because I thought Glorfindel would be him.” 

 

“But now? I’m not so sure.” 

A passer-by would have thought that he was ethereal in the darkness, in the sliver of firelight that lit his face in a golden hue; long lashes fanning over clear irises, the tears clinging to his jaw, and the smile that his lips had been carved into. 

 

Elcallon, however, jumped to action, though his gaze darted from Ecthelion’s lone figure, the clouds that had begun to swarm overhead, and the faint din of the people from further into the street.  His mouth fell open, but no voice came, as if he was still trying to process how to comfort someone who he had met only that evening, and who had never been quite so much a person as a bedtime story. 

But it was sweet, Ecthelion thought, that he immediately moved closer, his arm coming to form a shield around his shoulders though he hesitated to touch. And he appreciated that Elcallon didn’t say a word, even if that had been simply because he was speechless. 

But it was only a matter of time before an apology would come, guilty and obliging, though Ecthelion wouldn’t grudge him for bringing closer to the truth, rather he felt more inclined to be grateful. 

He focused on evening out his breaths, to blink away the tears that still clouded his vision, and then, on speaking again. 

 

“You needn’t say anything,” he whispered, and huffed as Elcallon startled visibly. Ecthelion knew it was futile to hope that he wouldn’t catch the pleading colouring the tone of his voice, and he braced himself for what would be a hasty apology, pity and the obligatory sympathy

 

“Alright.” 

Elcallon wouldn’t look at him, and something in the way that he had replied, the hoarse whisper, something of shock of having discovered something and the dread of having to unearth something similar within himself, told Ecthelion that it was not out of courtesy. 

His fingers were curled into loose fists, shaking, and his shoulders were tensed, making them appear even narrower, and he seemed to have trouble keeping his breath levelled as well. 

But once again, something told him that Elcallon wouldn’t want any questions asked either, and making true of their unspoken promise, Ecthelion began walking in silence toward the opening into the market-place. 

Ecthelion paused when there were no footsteps following his, and turned around to see Elcallon standing as if he had been rooted to the spot. 

His eyes were fixed on the cobblestones, blotted with spots of darker grey, the puddles gathering with each falling drop of the rain, which appeared like rivulets chasing the golden lights that glimmered in them. 

The younger elf was snapped back to reality as he felt the weight of Ecthelion’s gaze of questioning, and raced, almost, to catch up,even though he stood not so far away. The rivulet of rainwater meandered under the storm of his heels, and Ecthelion wondered absently if it would ever find its way back to the Sea. 

They approached the main street in silence, which was soon swallowed by the bustle of the lively assortment of people that had gathered. With their blank stares and melancholic quiet, Ecthelion supposed they would bring with them an air of unease to the atmosphere, but it seemed more likely that they were livened once more by the cheer. 

Elcallon had raised his chin up once more, and had let his eyes wander one by one over the vibrant displays of food and drink, and Ecthelion felt himself smile. It felt like the alarm of that epiphany had faded, and it had made a home in him, quiet and companionable, to think of over nights that would be too alive for rest, and too comfortable for action.  

 

It did not take long for the two of them to be standing together, shoulders brushing ever-so-slightly, it seemed as if whatever had drawn the boundary between the two of them not so long ago was what held them together in some sort of mutual bond, unspoken until when the time was right. 

Ecthelion didn’t know what made him tilt his chin toward Elcallon, and speak once more, to break the trust that must have soothed the cacophony of their minds. 

He did not know what he was thinking, not when his lips parted to reveal a smile that was sharp enough to bring the unease crawling back in, and not when the words came straight from some part of him he wasn’t sure had existed prior to that evening. 

“Do you want Erestor to come to you?” 

 

Elcallon took the question without a single emotion revealed, eyes that held fire but did not try to burn, but he did not reply with his usual swiftness, Ecthelion would have thought that it had caught him off-guard, if he had been able to gauge his expressions. 

 

“He won’t.” 

The tone of his voice did not invite any disputation, and he spoke as if he wanted the silence to return, but he spoke also with the breathlessness of wanting something he did not think he could have.

 

But Ecthelion did not think Elcallon had answered the question he had asked. “But, do you want him to?” 

 

Elacallon studied him for moments that did not pass easy, and it took more resolve than he was used to for Ecthelion to meet his stare head-on, without murmuring an apology for crossing the boundaries between friends-of-friends who had seen what the other had kept hidden. 

“I don’t.” 

 

Ecthelion would have been a fool to not hear the lie ringing out, and so would Elcallon, if his words were believable to even his own ears. But he did not think either of them had the courage to pry into one another’s affair once more, and so, he conceded to the end of the conversation with grace.  

They both let out sighs of their own in synchrony, Elcallon sounding resigned and Ecthelion sympathising, and in synchrony once more, trusted one another to not speak until they had finished the purpose for which they had broken away from the group. 

When they were within sight of their friends once more, Egalmoth was thankfully back to his lethal levels of energy, and Duilin humoured him with an expression that looked equal parts relieved and pinched, Rog had returned to their side once more, Ecthelion broke the silence between them with quiet words. 

 

“I walk by the sea in the morning, when my mind feels weighed,” he said, and Elcallon’s head shot up to look him straight in the eyes, “I think you’d like the quiet of dawn as I do.” 

 

The other elf looked surprised, it was an expression that Ecthelion hadn’t quite gotten used to on his part, but this time, he didn’t look so shaken up. His lashes shadowed the brightness of his eyes, but Ecthelion could tell they had brightened once more. 

When Elcallon smiled, the one from earlier on in the evening, the sort that tore a sharp curve into his cheeks, it was tender somehow, like a wound half-healing. 

 

“I wouldn’t mind it.” He shrugged.

As they took the turn on the street to return to their friends, Elcallon jostled their shoulders together, and grinned. Ecthelion felt at ease once more. 

 

“Oi, don’t you think you two were gone too long?” Rog complained loudly, but he glanced worriedly at Ecthelion as he settled into the side beside him.

 

Elcallon rolled his eyes, and replied without missing a beat, “Ecthelion didn’t remember what everyone wanted as well as he thought he did.” 

 

Three pairs of eyes turned to him accusingly, and the once-Lord of the Fountain shot a smirking Elcallon a dirty look for putting him in the spot.  “Maybe it wouldn’t have taken half as long had Elcallon offered to carry some of the yoghurt cups with me.” 

 

“I hope you didn’t get caught in the rain?” Duilin asked, concerned. 

 

Absently, Ecthelion echoed his last word.

He hadn’t remembered the rain. 

 

Elcallon’s eyes widened by a fraction before he shifted to the relaxed façade without a moment’s thought. “Ah, that. It came and went, nothing to worry about.” 

 

The conversation picked up once more, this time around, led by Rog and Egalmoth, with inputs from Duilin, Elcallon watched them talk with the ghost of a smile on his face, though he did not seem half as involved. 

Ecthelion ignored the looks of concern Rog shot him every half of a minute, until he stopped and lost himself in the bustle, and until Ecthelion lost himself in thought. 

He thought of the rain. 

He wondered whether the rain would come to him later in the night, when the midnight hour struck, and the soft glow of the moon was shadowed by passing clouds gathered. When he would find himself walking from the house that was too empty for him, still, to the sea that was loud enough to lull the silence from unease to comforting quiet. 

 

Ecthelion hoped the rain would visit him tonight, and that the winds the sky would send to him would be kind, gentle. 

He hoped it would let him sit in surrounding darkness with only himself for company, that the drops would be gentle on his skin, like a lover’s touch, and that the raging fires in his mind would be put to rest in the cleansing calm of the rain. 

What would come would instead be a storm, unknown to him; or maybe he had known all along, but had still hoped, naively. 

There would be no quiet that night, the rain would come, but with the rain would come the cacophonic thunder, flashes of lightning that painted the earth in lights eerie and over-bright, the drops would be shards of ice, to hurt and not to heal. 

 

There would neither be sleep in his eyes, nor a lullaby to lay him and his hopes and his fears to rest. 

All storms demanded to be seen, and Ecthelion had always watched. But now, turning his gaze to the heavens, at the stars that twinkled just barely, shrouded by the wisps of clouds that came and went, to break open and shatter the quiet of the night, Ecthelion wished he would be relieved of the burden that seemed too heavy to bear. 

The drizzle had come and gone, but the storm still awaited. 

Absently, he thought of the raindrops that he had left behind on the cobblestones. 

 

He wondered if the puddles would still trickle with the gold of light even with the lanterns doused. 

Whether the river would ever find its way home to the Sea. 

 

Notes:

Nost Na Lothion:
There are two explicitly named Elvish holidays that, without a question, are celebrated in the First Age. Both of them are holidays of Gondolin, but may have been observed elsewhere.

Nost-na-Lothion is a spring festival described on pages 171 and 172 of the Book of Lost Tales 2:

Yet in its time a spring of wondrous glory melted the skirts of those white mantles and the valley drank the waters and burst into flowers. So came and passed with revelry of children the festival of Nost-na-Lothion or the Birth of Flowers.
No exact time of year is given for Nost-na-Lothion, but the Quenya names of the months might give some clue. May is called Lótessë in Quenya and Lunde Lótëa or Lotession in the Qenya Lexicon: all of these names are related to the words for 'flower' and 'blossom', making May the month of flowers. It would therefore make sense for Nost-na-Lothion to occur at the beginning of May.

(My sources come from Ask-Middle-Earth which in turn led me to Elven Holidays and Festivals: What do we have to work with in the First Age? By Darth Fingon )

I'm not using titles much here, because I just think most of the elves would renounce their titles apart from official purposes (unless they were royals I suppose), because they are all living somewhat relaxed lives in Valinor? Or maybe the ones I've mentioned are all pretty good friends with one another?

 

In any case, I'd love to know your thoughts on this chapter (and on Elcallon please, he'll make appearances but I'm planning to write a separate thing for him and Erestor because that's where the idea for this story came from as well ahah).
Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter 2: Two.

Summary:

Dawn brings with it, frost and rain.
The sun shines hope on the lingering cold.

Or,
Guys being pals?
Ecthelion hangs out with Elcallon.
Friendship!

Notes:

Hello! It's been a long time! And I suppose it's going to be a longer time still :") I may have chosen the worst possible year to start writing and posting fanfiction, hate that for me

2.  

Later, Achilles pressed close for a drowsy whisper. "If you have to go, you know I will go with you." 

—Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

 

About two weeks after, Elcallon finally graced him with his presence, on one of the chilliest mornings of approaching spring, a day when the sky was a mournful shade of grey and when even the birds couldn’t be persuaded to leave the warmth of their nests. The thunderous rain from the night before, a hailstorm that had left dents in Ecthelion’s window panes, had since quietened to a ceaseless drizzle. 

In the passing of about quarter of an hour, it had been made abundantly clear that Elcallon was very obviously not one meant for long walks just after dawn, especially not in such depressingly freezing weather. 

And to an amused Ecthelion, his complaints about an assortment of topics, including but not limited to: the cold, the drizzle, the fog, the fact that the sun had not yet risen, and the cold once again, had only added to the lightening of his melancholic mood. 

It seemed that walks less quiet, even if the pleasant calm of dawn was now interrupted by grumbles and groans, and walks with company, did more for his peace of mind than any lingering silence ever had. 

It would not be quite so hard, Ecthelion felt, to get used to not feeling quite so lonely with only his thoughts for company. 

 

“If it bothers you so much, I won’t force you to accompany me.” Ecthelion told him, and immediately, the melting frost of Elcallon’s half-hearted glare was trained onto his face. 

 

“No.” he announced, crossing his arms and tucking his fingers against his chest, cozy under the fleece of his cloak. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to.” he shrugged right after, a warmth in his voice that made a bout of fondness swell in Ecthelion’s chest. 

“Suit yourself.” 

 

The Valinorian coastline was a long stretch of white sand that ran along the length of the Blessed Lands, one beach parted from the other by lagoons or hill creeks that gurgled merrily as they found their flow to the sea. 

The hillocks of green, now appearing like looming shadows of grey, were for the most part bare, while others were dotted with structures of wood and stone. There wasn’t much to see that morning, the mist had curled along the seashore, reaching icy fingers into the cityside, that clung to skies of pale blue with feeble sunlight, in contrast to the overwhelming grey of the lands they traversed. 

They hadn’t scaled close to even a quarter of the land, spending time more so on letting their words mingle amongst the rhythm of the drizzle, the whistling winds that caressed the shell of their ears, and the lapping of the waves as they gushed toward them, as if welcoming the two elves who had deigned to visit the lonely foreshores.

Elcallon broke the spell of silence that had descended upon them as Ecthelion had turned his attention to fastening his scarf after a particularly chilling bout of sea breeze blew at them.  

“That’s my house.” he announced, the tone of his voice devoid of any pride or dislike, or anything , his arm shot out from the confines of his coat. 

Elcallon followed the line of his pointed finger with his eyes, squinting his eyes.

The house in question was barely visible in the haze of the fog, but Ecthelion could make out the rough outline of the villa’s rear, a structure of grey stone that stood upon a hill of green that seemed to be under seize of vines and creepers and moss, shards of gold peeking out from the majestic windows. 

The back porch seemed a bit overgrown, from which emerged steps carved out of the jagged rocks, leading down to the beach in a flood of green. 

 

“You have a beautiful home.” Ecthelion commented with an appreciative glance, it wasn’t a lie, he quite admired the rustic beauty of the house, it was charming, and he quite liked the way that the plants seemed to have curled protectively over the sharp edges of the building, in a sea of grey, it looked cozy enough to hold onto the warmth of the day. 

Elcallon let out a bark of laughter at his words, a sound not as chiming as it was bitter, and Ecthelion turned his eyes away from the house. His friend had his gaze fixed on the window from where no light shone, his eyes were glinting and cold, but his smile was smooth and forced against his bowed lips. 

 

“Why? You don’t like it?” Ecthelion asked.

 

Elcallon shrugged, which Ecthelion now knew meant that he cared too much for it than words would tell and so resigned himself stubbornly to silence, and he was still looking at the house, and the longer he looked, the emptier it seemed to be. 

 

“It’s quiet.” was the answer he settled on, finally looking Ecthelion in the eye, and despite the vague reply, there was no doubt that he hadn’t been able to find himself at home still. 

 

“And?” 

 

He breathed in deeply, and Ecthelion traced with his gaze, the blooming warmth in his wind-chilled skin, the the raindrops clinging to his lashes as if tears, and the sharpness of his eyes, the edge of his clenched jaw, and how his lips dropped down in a frown. 

 

“Lonely.” He murmured, “It’s too empty for me.” 

 

“Are you waiting too, then? For home.”

 

Elcallon shook his head, his shoulders slumped, and the cloak came undone and pooled around his elbows, underneath he wore nothing but a shirt of white linen, not warm enough for the morning, and as his fingers unclenched, it seemed like the silence had given up on him, leaving only words. 

“Home is always there already. There’s no use waiting for it to come.” 

 

Ecthelion unraveled the scarf from around his neck, and as he reached forward to wrap the warmth of the blue cashmere around Elcallon, he mused, “Then you are waiting to find it, still searching.”    

 

“If I haven’t found it already, then I won’t ever. I haven’t been waiting.” he seemed to lean ever-so-slightly into the hold of Ecthelion’s fingers, before he bit words out as if in a snarl, but his eyes still looked mournful, childlike, “I haven’t.” 

 

Ecthelion squeezed his shoulders gently, pulling up the edges of the cloak and tightening the clasps, “Is there anything wrong in holding onto hope?”   

 

“It would make me a fool.” Elcallon whispered, and then smiled with teeth, his eyes fluttering shut as he let out another sigh. Ecthelion, experienced in the art of holding onto hope, and also in being foolishly led by it in the eternality he had come alive again, felt that he could not deny the truth in his thinking. 

 

The younger elf, who seemed almost shadowed beside Ecthelion’s taller and broader form, stepped away before he could reply. It didn’t take even a breath’s time, before he was striding forward against the direction of the wind, auburn hair whipping a storm around his frost-flushed face. 

 

Elcallon looked at him over a shoulder, lifting a hand up instantaneously to push back the strands of hair that spilled into his glowing eyes, “What do you say to brunch in the city?” 

The re-embodied elf blinked, and then noticing the way that Elcallon had paused at a safe distance from himself, stared hard at him, “We are not racing in the cold.”

 

Elcallon cackled, “Oh? So now it’s cold?” 

* ~ * ~ *

Needless to say, they had raced all the way to the city square, before the older of the two supposedly respectable elves had noticed the disapproving glances that had been cast at their unruly dyad, and grasping a scowling Elcallon’s forearm in a vice-like grip, had quickly sought refuge in a café that had appeared in his hour of need.

 

“You owe me a slice of cake, or pie. Or a cup of coffee.” Elcallon declared, as soon as they had found themselves seated. 

 

Ecthelion scanned the menu board for his favourite winter drink, a mug of hot chocolate and pinpointed the price of a particularly sinful slice of chocolate gateau, and hearing Elcallon’s haughty demand, frowned. “I owe you? What for?” 

 

The younger elf crossed his arms across his chest, “Because we raced. And I won. Now, don’t be a sore loser and pay up.” 

 

Ecthelion huffed, “I don’t remember agreeing to these terms.” 

Before Elcallon could argue, he pointed an accusing finger in his face, “Besides, who said you won? Wasn’t it me who stepped in first?” 

 

Elcallon opened his mouth to argue and promptly shut it once again, looking pitiful; they both knew he was being dramatic. He sniffed and wrapped Ecthelion’s muffler closer around his neck. “But I’m cold.” he said. 

 

The silver-eyed elf laughed, “Only this one time, and only because I’m sure you left your house on impulse and haven’t any cash with you.” 

 

Elcallon could not find it in himself to deny what was undeniably true, and smiling smugly at the prospect of a free breakfast, shrugged good-naturedly. “Ah well, it is what it is.” 

They settled into a pleasant hush, speaking again only after they had finished eating their individual slices of cake, and had pulled the mugs of warm drinks to savour. Elcallon, on his part, had ordered one of the most cheap items on the menu, a buttered scone with apricot jam and a piping hot cup of black coffee, despite Ecthelion’s repeated chiding to eat well without worrying about the price. 

 

Aman did not necessarily require to function on currency, all elves who had departed from the shores of Arda to the Undying Lands were assured freedom from worrying about earning their livelihoods. 

But yet, most of the residents had continued on with their own crafts, after one or two centuries of rest, otherwise, in all honesty there wouldn’t be much to do. By choice, numerous ellyn and ellith had found positions in a variety of spheres, of teaching and healing, of governance and politics, others who worked to produce food in their farms along with meat and fish and honey. 

There were sailors, of course, though with all but four elves having made it to Aman already, they were free to retire from their jobs. 

 

Ecthelion himself didn’t stick to any permanent work, but he volunteered with regularity in the orchestra that came together to play for festivals and other community functions, and at some point in the past centuries, had taught both weaponry and music. On Turgon’s insistence, he had tried his hand at administration once again, but had quickly tired of it, and backed down. 

 

From what Elcallon had told him, it seemed like he too was involved in the staging of plays and other performances as Ecthelion was with the orchestra, though he confessed that it had been only at Lady Celebrían’s encouragement, and maybe a sickness of the monotony he had forced himself into. 

Neither Ecthelion nor Rog had run into him in the past few weeks, since Elcallon had been busy with the rigorous practice for the Spring Festival, quite an extravagant affair that time around, considering that the last of the elves were to arrive only a few days later. 

Ecthelion too, had spent his time in the direction of the quieter beaches and forests, to gain a semblance of his peace of mind before Glorfindel would arrive, and he would once again be lost in the spirals of emotion. 

It was Elcallon who brought the matter up naturally, though Ecthelion could see the brightness in his albeit distracted eyes, an act to seem unbothered, despite how much he had thought before posing the question in the first place. 

“Will you go see them?” he spoke up, taking a gulp of his coffee, “As in, Glorfindel. And the rest of them.” 

 

Ecthelion hummed, “I don’t think I should. I’d be bringing a whole barrage of emotions with me if I did, and I’m not sure that would be good for either of us.” He contemplated the question and answered slowly, and Elcallon frowned as he listened; but before Ecthelion could ask him a question in turn, he quickly replied. 

 

“Glorfindel would want you to be there. He’d be waiting.” he said into the rim of his mug, and raising his eyes to Ecthelion’s, “But otherwise too, you have been waiting too. For so long.”  

 

“It would be better if I didn’t. Not the day he arrives, I’ll go see him when he has settled in.” he sighed, he did genuinely believe that it would be for the best. Ecthelion did not think it fair to overwhelm Glorfindel with a relic of the past on the day he set foot over the threshold of the future. 

 

Elcallon nodded, as if he understood it just as well. Ecthelion took the silence of the moment to ask him the same thing as well. “And you?” 

 

Elcallon raised an eyebrow in questioning. 

“Well, will you go see him ?” Ecthelion demanded, leaning forward to study Elcallon intently, hoping this time would let him have a clear read on him. 

 

Not less than a beat, his answer came, bit on and chewed and spat out, “No.” 

 

He sounded rather contemplative, suddenly doubtful of himself, something that seemed foreign to Elcallon’s aura of smug self-assurance. He avoided meeting Ecthelion’s eyes, golden irises trained on the stormy sea over which the clouds were starting to gather, his fingers had begun to drum an anxious rhythm on the surface of the teakwood table. 

 

“Why not?” he tried coaxing out a reply. 

 

“There isn’t a point to it. I haven’t been waiting, and neither has he, what difference does it make?” 

 

“How come you’re so sure of his side of the story as well?” Ecthelion posed, chin digging into the heel of his palm, a position Elcallon too mirrored. 

 

Elcallon's voice wavered when he replied, “I’m not. I just...” he shifted, looking uneasy, “I don’t think he would."

He sighed deeply, “I wouldn’t have, if I were him.” 

 

Ecthelion knew better to broach the topic further, it was evident enough from their past interactions that any attempt on his part to dig into whatever bitter waters had passed between Elcallon and Erestor only prompted the younger elf to shutter off instantaneously.  

Their back and forth continued, almost an interrogation of sorts, Ecthelion thought, at least it was on Elcallon’s part. 

It was quite disconcerting to have the otherwise twinkling eyes stare him down with a frightful intensity, and to see any trace of his charming smile be wiped off with a frown, and Ecthelion couldn’t help but wonder whether that was how Elcallon would have been back in Arda when he was known to be a deadly assassin. 

 

He almost made a note in his mind to ask Laurë whenever he returned, and abandoned the thought as if he had been burnt by it, and resolved to ask lady Celebrían or Lindir someday or another. 

 

“You said it would be for the better; if you didn’t go.” Elcallon started, “But are you sure that’s what you want?”

 

Ecthelion struggled to keep his lips from curling into a smirk, and answered him with a question of his own, “It seems as if that is what you are saying too, Elcallon. Are you sure it's what you want as well?” 

 

There was a knot between his eyebrows that deepened as Ecthelion spoke, he had been expecting a straightforward answer as always, and Elcallon gazed into the re-embodied elf’s piercing silver eyes for a few moments, before he looked away, almost defeated. 

 

“Perhaps neither of us are so sure to have an answer then.” he sighed. 

 

Ecthelion laughed out loud, “Of course not. Some would call these matters of the heart, I don’t think we’re sure at all. Or we’ll ever be.” 

 

“You’re right.” Elcallon said with a rough exhale, looking almost as if the truth in Ecthelion’s words had hurt him personally, which in, all probability, might have. 

But then, as he always did after showing any vulnerability, he grinned, “Well, Lord of the Fountain, it seems you know a lot of such matters.” 

 

Ecthelion spared only a roll of his eyes for the use of his old title, and solemn once more, spoke in earnest. 

“How about this?” he said, “Since you don’t plan to go, and neither do I; let us both spare ourselves any regrets, and decide to not go together .” 

 

Elcallon smiled ruefully, “And what if you do decide to go, at the end of the day?” 

 

“Then, I shall respect your decision.” Ecthelion sighed, “But I’d want you to come with me, so we could stumble past a disaster, or perhaps a golden opportunity, together.” 

 

Elcallon flashed him a sharp smile, “Let’s stumble together, then.” 

 

Ecthelion’s eyes softened, and somewhere through the clouds of grey, a ray of the sun glazed the drizzle in the light of crystals. It fell upon the both of them, Elcallon’s eyes traced a jagged scar of golden-white light that ran across the side of Ecthelion’s face, not-quite blinding, but still so bright, and as it caught on his eyes, illuminated, his irises revealed a shade of pale blue around the dark blot of his pupil that faded to storm grey. 

 

In his eyes too, there looked to be a sea, not sunwarmed and shining, but rather, these waters held a storm in them. Tranquility was what he held, though it came with the peace of having felt already the most intense of emotions, the ocean waves that had crashed now eased toward the shore. 

 

And it would feel, for the both of them, as if things would be better. 

Perhaps they would. 

“Together.” Ecthelion echoed. 

 

The light poured over the raindrops that fell forth from the sky. 

The rain appeared like stars falling, with the quiet of a whispered wish; perhaps fulfilled, or perhaps not. 

 

Notes:

listen, its about the ✨✨parallels✨✨
(also, yes, i watched a lot of café related videos at the time i wrote this :D )

Thank you so much for reading!

 

@yearnfortheoceans

Chapter 3: Three.

Summary:

Somewhere in the crossing between dreams and reality, fate catches up.
Ecthelion, caught unaware, makes a choice.
The shadow holds the weight of light.

Or,
A choice, that in hindsight, is way easier than previously considered, is finally made.
Ecthelion, you over-thinking-mess-that-I'm-definitely-not-projecting-on, go get your boy!

Notes:

Hello! It's been a while!
Here's another chapter,,,, and I may have spent too long sitting on it because I lacked any sort of motivation to take this forward. But the chapter that follows will be more dialogue heavy so I hope that'll get me out of this slump?

I've started this chapter with some element of world-building, because I've tagged soulmates and I really wanted the concept of it (even though um maybe it's a plot device too ahahah). I've tried to make it inclusive in the sense that it isn't limited to romantic lovers, 1) because platonic and familial love is equally important and not less than romantic love!!!!!!! and 2) because I couldn't decide on soulmates for everyone.

But, something I want to establish here is that everyone else only has one, aaah it's for the plot. So, one person who can be romantic or platonic or anything in between, and some people don't have either if they don't want one!

Anyway, that's the basic gist, and I hope it'll make sense?

Onto the chapter! I hope you'll enjoy!

3. 

I glow pink in the night in my room
I've been blossoming alone over you

And I hear my heart breaking tonight
I hear my heart breaking tonight
Do you hear it too?
It's like a summer shower
With every drop of rain singing

I love you, I love you, I love you
I love you, I love you, I love you
I love you, I love you, I love you.

I could stare at your back all day
I could stare at your back all day
And I know I've kissed you before, but
I didn't do it right

Can I try again, try again, try again
Try again, and again, and again
And again, and again, and again?

― Mitski, Pink in the Night, from 'Be the Cowboy'  

 

 

One thing about Aman that Ecthelion had not quite let cross his mind in all the years that he has been re-embodied, was that of soulmates. 

It wasn’t that he had been waiting all these years for anyone else but Laurefindil, and not even the Valar could deny that fact which was as clear as day, as stark as the sun that burnt golden on The Day he had been waiting for as long as he had come alive again. 

 

And so, as his dearest friends found love, amongst themselves or with others who had either returned or had always stayed in Aman, or even as some still hopeful for painted blushes, sparkling eyes, the breathlessness and the euphoria of having loved and having been loved back, Ecthelion did what he always had. 

 

He waited.

And he hoped.  

 

It was not as though everyone in Aman had another fated for themselves, there were some who did not desire lovers, and so found friends instead. There were others still who had found contentment within themselves, and were not in search of fate, for fate was what they had found without wanting another. 

Talking to Elrond, and Lindir, and to Elcallon, when he was more or less comfortable to, Ecthelion had long since come to know that the concept of finding love, back in Arda had been different. 

Elrond’s words had been eloquent when he had asked, with a pleasant smile on his face, he had started by saying, “Love in Arda was found by chance. It came through trust; if I loved someone, I gave them a promise, and they offered me one in turn,” he had shared a smile with Celebrían as he had spoken. 

 

She continued what he had started with, “But promises could be broken, and often, they were. But I suppose, in Arda, there was an element of choice.” 

 

Elrond nodded in agreement, but added on quickly, to balance his argument, “I’d say that in some way, it might be better here, heartbreaks won’t last forever. And the Valar themselves have willed that you find your fated and know that you have found them, and so far, it hasn’t been so that any love from Arda has been broken in Aman.” 

Lindir was far more optimistic, already having found whoever he had been looking for, and was all smiles, “In Arda, finding romantic love was never something to be sure of,” he said, “The feä only searched, not knowing whether it would find what it was looking for. But here? There’s no getting hurt, you know who loves you will love you truly.” 

Elcallon rolled his eyes at Lindir’s idealism, “You have to learn to love who you get, at least in Arda we weren’t stuck, there was always the choice to run.”  

Lindir had turned to him with a saccharine sweet smile on his face, but his words had been far more acrid, “Ah, you would know all about running away, wouldn’t you, Elcallon?” he demanded. 

Elcallon had flinched at the sound of his voice, and judging from the response, and how Lindir’s hands shook as he reached out immediately in apology, and how first Celebrían whipped her head around to look at them, silver curls unbound; Ecthelion could tell this had been something to do with Erestor. 

 

He hoped Elcallon would forgive him for wanting to meet the presence that loomed over him, a worry clouding his brow, but for the life of him, Ecthelion wished desperately to know what exactly had transpired between the two of them. 

 

All Elcallon had offered in reply to the minstrel’s profuse apologies, shrugging Lindir’s hands off his shoulders with a rueful smile, was a carefully nonchalant, “I deserved that.”

But he had excused himself soon after, on account of the clouds that had begun to gather over the horizon, he had arrived on foot and would not look forward to rush home in the pouring rain. 

 

Celebrían had pinched her fingers over the bridge of her nose, and let out a rough exhale, as Elrond was attempting to soothe Lindir who looked to be sick with guilt. Ecthelion heard only bits and pieces of their conversation, “It's just that Erestor used to be so….” Lindir had been saying, though Ecthelion could only guess that he had been quite happy with Elcallon, “And I don’t know what happened, and both of them could have worked this out a long time ago.” 

“But he ran. And he still is.”   

Sitting now, in the comfort of his own home, Ecthelion forced his eyes to the scenery outside of his window, it wasn’t that he was looking outside, the view hadn’t changed so much in the last couple of centuries, blue sky and blue sea. 

But rather he had been, unknowingly looking within; on the inside, the house, and him too, felt emptier still. 

Having washed his hands raw, to rid himself of the hope he had been carrying as a burden, as a promise, there seemed to be an emptiness within him. And as the day had finally dawned, the void had swallowed all that had made a home in him ever since he had been given life again, and Ecthelion could not help but wonder whether Glorfindel would love him if he were hollow. 

Or whether Glorfindel would love him at all for who he was, rather than who he had been. 

 

And somewhere, he wondered if he too would be able to do the same for him. Whether he would still search for Laurë, even with Laurë already gone.

Whether he would love Arda’s hope even with his own lost.

But his mind wandered once more to this idea, of soulmates, of Valar-ordained love. 

All this while, well, almost all this while, he had no rhyme nor reason to think of who he would find; there was never a need to search, he knew already, that it would be Laurefindil, whoever else? 

But it wasn’t that everyone who hoped, who wanted, necessarily found; there was Rog still searching, even though Egalmoth and Duilin had found each other as friends and were now tiptoeing along something more, and Ecthelion had found, but he was still waiting. 

Or so he thought; and though Elrond had said, and by himself too Ecthelion knew, no love from Arda had been broken in Aman, Ecthelion couldn’t help but think of the fact that was glaringly bright before him: no other elf had had died, been reborn, and sent across the Sea to be two people at once. 

 

Glorfindel did not lie on either side of the spectrum he had seen in Aman. Ecthelion’s own parents had been reborn, the lives they had lived before the Darkening lost to forgotten memories, and countless others too, had become completely different people altogether. 

Who was now Glorfindel, had once been Laurefindil, that was how Ecthelion had thought of him prior; but now, he understood that who was now Glorfindel was still he who had been Laurefindil, but it was not that they were one, even if their feä was the same, and beyond this fact, there was nothing else that Ecthelion, or for a matter of fact, any of the Eldar in Aman would understand. 

 

Only the Valar would know. And the Valar never let the Firstborn open their eyes to the light that would blind them. 

In a way, Ecthelion supposed it was not knowing that had sustained him this long, a hope that he could no longer rely on, was what had given his feä to wake from the sleep of death and cross over from the realms of Mandos and Lorien to the world of the living. 

 

But now, unable to think so clearly and count his blessings, if that was what they were, Ecthelion, consumed by the emptiness, that had left room only for apprehension and a childlike fear, wished he would be guided to his fate without any blindfolds. 

Valinor was intended to be paradise, and the Valar were of the belief that such a paradise would hold no heartbreak, or loneliness, or any sort of want left unsatisfied. And thus, they had done all within their power to unite people, the knots of fate that Vairë wove were tapestries hung for all eyes to see. 

It was not as if Ecthelion himself knew the experience of it, and whenever either he or Rog would ask, Egalmoth would reply in the most cryptic of words and Duilin would shake his head at them with a sheepish smile; it seemed as though connections formed were unexplainable, fate and destiny were forces that bound people together, but these were chains unseen. 

 

Ecthelion, of course, and Rog to an extent that oftentimes seemed more like a joke rather than sincerity, had long since resigned themselves to gaining any sort of understanding of fate and destiny and Valar-ordained love only when they had found it for themselves. 

And now, he could only hope that unexplainable, for him, would not be the same as meaningless. 

 

Rog was notorious for unsuccessful escapades with ellyn and ellith alike, but despite all his theatrics, Ecthelion had a feeling that he was by nature a wanderer, his fate was not in a person but rather in experiences, and at the end of the day, he was not lonely or wanting of such companionship. 

Amongst the four of them, there had never been any sort of doubt expressed in the thought that Laurefindil was fated for anyone but Ecthelion. 

And Ecthelion had held on tightly to that hope, and had been waiting ever since, despite having fleeting interests in someone or the other, he had never acted upon them; though he was sure that the expectations on his shoulders from all those who he had known of him and Laurefindil from Gondolin had played a role in his disinterest, there was no doubt that he had always, in the heart of hearts, felt that there was no other meant for him, in Arda or in Aman.

 

Now, he could understand that it had been a naïve judgement, but despite himself, perhaps by force of habit or a habitual foolishness, he still held onto it to keep afloat in the crashing wave that would no doubt come to drown him in the sea of his doubts. 

In all this time of never having looked, and never having found, Ecthelion wasn’t sure what he would do in the chance of Laurë being fated to be with another, from his second life. 

To be completely honest, he wasn’t even sure he would even be capable of moving on, of letting go of the hand he had always imagined to grasp, even if there had been a chance that its twin was entwined in another’s. 

And now there was. 

By virtue of Glorfindel being born a second time, and having lived a second life, there was no telling whether he would be fated for someone of his present, rather than with Ecthelion who was but a memory, perhaps a story, or a ghost of the past in Arda. 

 

Only time will tell, he had said to himself time and again, and now, the time had drawn nearer. The unfurled sails of the ship would appear at the horizon by late noon, and by evening, it would be nearing the harbour, and by sunset, Laurefindil and his companions would be in Aman, and in the night, there would be a celebration to mark their return.

 

Ecthelion did not think he would be able to bear the weight of Laurefindil’s gaze, neither his pity nor any concern if things would not go as well as he expected. 

He had been told that Glorfindel too had waited for him, and Ecthelion did not think he could bear to see him guilt-ridden or hurt, or perhaps even heartbroken, if it would be declared that he was fated with another. 

 

He and Elcallon had decided together, to not join the celebrations at night, and neither to join the crowd that would gather to greet the last of the elves; the tides were high and their hopes, though unspoken, hung higher still, and to have them fall and break and shatter would hurt too much, especially at an occasion that marked overwhelming joy and homecoming. 

The emptiness would sting too sharp when there was no home for them to return to; as Elcallon had told him bitterly, the quiet was lonely.

 

It was not that he did not want to go. Rog and Egalmoth and Duilin, as well as Elrond, Celebrían, Lindir, even Idril, Turgon and Elenwë were expecting him to be present for the moment he had been waiting so long for. 

But he had not told them that he would not go. If he did, they would try to change his mind, and Ecthelion knew all too well that it would not take them much effort to achieve such a feat. 

 

Of course he wanted to go. How could he have not? 

 

On a day several months ago, he had woken up at dawn, with the sun in his eyes and the sun in his lungs, the world alight in the shadows that melted to golden on the ivory of his walls, he had woken up with hope. 

The hope, it had always been there, but what he had felt had truly been something else , it had been something more . 

For a moment, Ecthelion could have sworn he had seen Laurefindil before him; eyes wide with wonder, the iridescence of green and blue and grey, rather than melting ice of the past, bathed in the light of the rising sun, he had thought him to be ethereal. 

 

Glorfindel had looked as if he were the embodiment of radiance, on fire but not burning; a halo of sun rays twined about the crown of his head, and the sunbeams having found in his palms, in his core, a haven for the light. 

And the waves had rushed to Laurë’s hands as if he was the shore; the river had not drowned but rather had become the Sea, become something more . 

 

He had reached forward, caught in a trance, ensnared as the tides were, aching to be complete. A warmth had spread through him, tingled in his fingertips, his vision had melted to the gold of the light, and desperately he had tried to peel his eyes open, to see clearly, whatever it had been, dream or destiny. 

Ecthelion had felt his breath catch as Glorfindel had tilted his head ever-so-slightly to look him in the eyes. 

His fingers had sunk into the strands of sunspun hair that had spilled onto his forehead, and he had raised a hand to tuck them back behind his ears. 

 

And Ecthelion had stared, mouth agape, wishing so desperately to see Glorfindel again, just a glimpse before the dream was lost amongst the throes of muted dullness of forgotten nightmares that had filled Ecthelion’s mind.  

But perhaps he had realized too late that it had been a dream . 

And as his eyes had fluttered open, the sight of the sea and the sun, had faded with the languid ascent of the smile on Glorfindel’s upturned mouth, dipping into the warmth of his cheeks, and then rising to his eyes that glowed in azure and gold.    

 

He had thought of it as a sign. 

And then in the weeks that had followed, he had tried to understand and rid himself of that hope; but yet, love was fleeting and fickle and formidable, and he had continued to chase after it, though he had thought he had already let go.

 

Want , it would appear, was not quite so simple to cast away. 

And neither was envy, or grief, and Ecthelion hoped he wouldn’t realize that the hard way.

 

And maybe that too would be most arduous to cast away. 

Hope.

Having held onto it so long, Ecthelion still hoped he wouldn’t have to let hope go.

 

To the dream, that had been the only one that had ended with the sea, rather than the shallow waters of the fountain, he had whispered countless secrets, he had held it closer. 

It had been a piece of something, perhaps he hoped it was what destiny had called for him, or fate, in the breathlessness of knowing in the expanse of uncertainty, in the euphoria of having rather than having to let go. 

 

But all along, it had been love. Just love, that had drowned him in shallow waters, choked him with silence and burnt him with want, that had burdened him; love that had made him glide weightless on the wings of hope.   

It was not so frightening as it was disappointing that even the slightest of force could have deterred Ecthelion from his decision to lock himself in the lingering silence that had kept him company in him all these years in Laurefindil’s absence, for just a day longer. 

The emptiness, though unbearable, was a familiar presence that had made up for his beloved, and he would rather feel empty than hurt. 

(But perhaps he had not understood yet what he would come to, that like hope, the pain had always been there; it was just that he hadn’t realised he was hurting.) 

 

And thus, he had made a promise, pretending it wasn’t selfish, when it had been for himself, at the end of the day.  Even if he were swayed so easy, Elcallon wouldn’t allow himself such a weakness. 

He supposed it was another burden he had mounted on Elcallon’s shoulders, to lead him and to let him follow; it was not them stumbling together, rather, it was Ecthelion who was blindfolded, losing a step and trusting Elcallon to pull him up. 

 

But he supposed that to live was to burden. 

To be alive and to exist was to cast shadows, that was the burden he carried, of not being weightless. 

To be alive was to feel , whether it was sorrow or joy or envy or hope. 

To be alive was to love, and thinking back, Ecthelion supposed that had always been the first weight he had held, and first shadow he had cast upon the light.  

 

* ~ * ~ *

He had finished up with a light lunch, not feeling hunger nor content, just empty. 

Perhaps that was another way of hungering, way of wanting, to not feel full. 

His house was empty, but it wasn’t not beautiful. 

It had not felt empty until Elcallon had told him that lingering silences had made him feel alone, or perhaps Ecthelion had just not named the emptiness until he had realised it that the word had been loneliness all along. 

 

He had not opted for a house too large, Ecthelion no longer considered himself a Lord anyway, though he had, by choice that was guided by nostalgia, insisted upon the fountains. 

(And not unexpectedly, the garden surrounding the compound, and the backyard were a home to golden flowers, amongst others, and the building was designed in a way that would bring the brightest of sunlight. 

And for an urge he hadn’t been able to explain, he had also requested to have a path close into one of the numerous forest groves that dotted the Valinorian landscape, the one near his was not frequented by others. 

Ecthelion had commended himself for the sudden decision; the forest and the seashore and the sun had given to him peace like no other.)  

 

Ecthelion sat in the kitchen, bathed in afternoon sunlight, the solitary plate he had used was propped up to one side inside the dish-draining basket, and a smaller pan he had used to fry an egg to mount upon his bread stood in the sink. The tap dripped water in unsynchronized beats, but Ecthelion had not taken any notice of the sound. 

The afternoon was quiet. 

Pleasantly quiet, and terribly warm for the start of spring, he imagined that most would begin to rouse from a siesta in a while, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and building themselves up for the excitement of the evening. 

The silence was not broken, but rather accompanied by the incessant song of a cicada from the woods, and the rhythmic gush of the waves as they broke upon the shore and retreated once more.

Ecthelion had pushed the dining table beside the row of open windows, warmed by the sun and refreshed by the sea breeze that tasted like salt, but somehow sweet like springwater. He was toying with an orange that had fit snugly in the cup of his palm, too distracted to peel the skin off, but on the other hand, his gaze was caught in how vibrant the fruit was in the sunshine. 

 

He had startled when the door had been rattled. But it was likely that he had just tuned out the knocks the first few times, which was not quite hard of a feat in itself, considering that the corridor that would lead into the main hall was further along from the kitchen, and quite a distance to cross within the house. The corridor that opened from the hall on one hand, led to an alcove that housed his boots, coats and umbrellas alike, and in turn toward the front door, and on the other hand, up the stairs to the second floor. 

 

Ecthelion flew to his feet, rushing towards the door where the sound had been reduced to quite aggressive knocking. 

He pulled it open with an alarming force, panic crawling up his throat since for some reason, all he could think of was a capsized ship and murky waters, and faced his wide-eyed guest who still had a fisted hand raised up as if to knock. 

 

“What happened? Is everything alright?” Ecthelion demanded breathlessly. 

 

Elcallon snapped back to reality, “ You’re asking me? You look like you’ve seen a ghost Ecthelion!” 

 

As Ecthelion moved to the side to let Elcallon in, he noticed that the younger was dressed in what he had been wearing for his performance at the spring festival, a shirt of cremé coloured silk with a neckline that plunged down to his chest, and dark trousers that hugged his lean legs. Slung over his shoulder was the sabre in its case, and he had hastily draped the gold sequined black cape around himself. 

Elcallon’s ears were bejeweled, a delicate looking chain hung from his earlobe, catching the light as he moved, and his helix piercings were studded with smaller rings of gold. 

Ecthelion frowned, would he be attending the celebrations?

He asked the question out loud, after he had led them to the living room, Elcallon had settled himself on the arm of the diwan and Ecthelion was drawing the curtains open beside his armchair when the former nodded slowly. 

 

“Oh, for the performance?” he said, and then looked straight at Elcallon, “Or…?” 

 

Elcallon, who avoided his gaze, but interrupted him hastily, “That too.” he said, words like a sigh.

 

“Orophin was supposed to take my place, but he was injured somehow over the weekend, so Celebrían who is technically organising everything, asked if it was alright with me. and she knew I hadn’t any plans and she can tell really easily when I’m lying and I didn’t mean to―” 

 

Ecthelion raised his palms placatingly, “Elcallon, I’m not angry. You don’t need to justify your actions to me.” 

 

Elcallon raised his eyes to him, and in the gold of his gaze, it appeared as though they were alight with an sincerity so intensely brilliant, that Ecthelion couldn’t help but turn his line of vision to a spot somewhere above his forehead. 

 

“But,” he murmured, and his voice was thick with emotion, “I could have said no. She wouldn’t have made me come.” 

 

As Ecthelion opened his mouth to speak, some sort of reassurance, though his heart was beating wildly with the possibility of breaking their agreement as a whole and being able to glimpse Glorfindel with his own eyes after he had wanted for so long, Elcallon shook his head. 

 

“I wanted to go. I wanted to see him…No, I want to. I―I want Erestor to come to me,” Elcallon’s breath hitched as he uttered his name, but inhaling shudderingly, he spoke again, “And I want to be there for him, waiting.” 

 

He reached out a hand toward Ecthelion, though it could not reach him with where he was standing adjacent toward the windows, and his lips quirked up hesitantly, and the smile that flickered on his face was wholly unalike to his typical sharpness. 

 

“I came here, not only to tell you that.” he said, “Remember how we had spoken about what I would do had you wanted to go? But you said you would hope for me to accompany you, but respect my decision nonetheless. But it seems like the opposite is what has happened.” 

 

Ecthelion nodded dumbly, knowing exactly what Elcallon would ask of him, but not knowing what he would say once the words were finally uttered. 

 

“Will you come with me Ecthelion?” 

 

Ecthelion sunk into the plush fabric of the armchair, drawing his knees closer to his chest and tucking his chin over them. He closed his eyes, and against his eyelids was etched the vision from his dream, a figure bathed in gold, an expanse of azure with crimson of dawn spilling over the waves, the Sun and the Sky, he shook his head and looked forward at Elcallon who seemed spooked once more. 

I’m sorry , was what he was going to say, and he had already lifted himself off the diwan and had knelt on one knee before Ecthelion, eyebrows pinched and golden eyes searching his own. 

 

Ecthelion managed a smile, though it was not very hard to pull one out of thin air, “I am thinking, that is all.” he clarified before Elcallon began to worry. 

A worried Elcallon, in Ecthelion’s experience, was a quiet Elcallon; and Elcallon sitting mum was an image disconcerting that he was not particularly inclined to see him so withdrawn. 

 

“Is this something you want to think about?” Elcallon asked in a whisper, as if he was speaking to a lost child, and Ecthelion was quite amused by the comparison. He took the hand Elcallon had offered to him before, and squeezed gently. 

“I don’t know what to say. I’m not so sure whether I want to see him, today that is,” he said, words that fell forth from his mouth before he could second-guess himself, “But, I’m not so sure I don’t want to see him either.”

Elcallon nodded understandingly, squeezing back just as gently, as if encouraging him to continue. 

“It’s not easy for me to decide,” he started, and then shook his head, “Perhaps that is exactly the problem, that it would be too easy for me to decide. 

 

“I want to go too, I want to see Glorfindel, Laurefindil, him , and the thing is that I’ve wanted to, all this while, since I died and came back and died somehow again and returned to reality.” 

He let out a little laugh, that was brittle and scratched the inside of his throat, “But I’m afraid. I don’t know what will happen, if I go or if I don’t, and I don’t want to be caught in something just because I wanted and couldn’t stop myself.” 

 

That was what it was at the end of the day, Ecthelion thought, want was not easy to cast away, and with his want had always come hope, and love. 

What he was afraid of was of asking for too much, hoping to have too much; having to reach for the Sun and return empty-handed, or worse, burnt.   

 

Was there punishment for having wanted something to be perfect? 

Of wanting to have known fate, and chosen destiny, and having what he wanted rather than what the Ilúvatar had decided for him? 

 

Ecthelion did not know, he did not think it was a crime to have hoped, or to have been a fool, but he was still afraid. 

Ecthelion did not like being afraid, he had prided himself upon his courage, and more importantly, what pillar of strength would he remain for Laurefindil if he had sunk to the ground, wanting to detach himself from the world? 

Had he not healed? And what else was even left for him to heal from, if not the Balrog and his death, and the Fall of the city he had vowed to protect?

Was it fair of Ecthelion to make himself mourn Laurefindil’s death when he had been born again and had lived another lifetime already?

 

Perhaps there was something else that was hurting. 

Maybe the wound had always been there, and it was only now that he had realised he had been bleeding all along; the silence that had lingered all this while only to stifle him now was a wound that had been gaping, and the gentle fingers of time had begun to prod at them, letting blood flow freely. 

 

He broke away from his thoughts at the brush of Elcallon’s thumb over his knuckles, his skin was warm though the pad of his fingers was rough, and breathed in the warmth of the afternoon that would soon melt into evening. 

“Is it a crime to hold onto hope?” Elcallon murmured, and his eyes were dancing, a little joke between the two of them, Ecthelion smiled too. “Ecthelion, the way I look at this. It is better to say something that not, to reach out for something rather than clench your fists and hold back.” 

 

“But,” it broke out of him, “if I regret it? Then what? I can’t bear to.”

 

“This moment will come only once, of him returning, his feet sinking into the sand. And anyone who knows Glorfindel would know that he will be searching for you , only you.” Elcallon jabbed a finger to his chest, though the touch was soft. 

“And that moment, of course, it’ll come and it’ll go. But in your head, and in his, it’s going to stay.” 

He laughed, mirthless, but rather than brittle, it sounded more tearful, “And I speak from experience, and from the side of wanting to make that experience right.”   

 

“You are saying that I’ll regret it if I don’t go?” Ecthelion demanded. 

 

Elcallon shook his head, “Don’t put words into my mouth. It is not for me to know or to tell you whether you’ll regret it or not, and along with that, whether you choose to go or not isn’t the end of the world.” 

 

He squeezed Ecthelion’s fingers in the warmth of his grip, “You have an eternity to sieve through your regrets, and to make things right. And that is assuming there are any wrongs to rewrite at all, Glorfindel adores you, and he wouldn’t hold anything against you of course. 

“What I’m asking of you, like you asked of me once, is to do what you want. You have been waiting so long, Ecthelion. And you deserve to have what you want, to hell if it’s right or wrong, better or for worse. You’ll heal from it over here, that’s the point of Aman isn’t it?” 

 

Ecthelion nodded. “I appreciate this, you, and everything you’ve said.” he said, “But, I think I need more time to think, and to decide what I want, for myself.” 

 

Elcallon nodded too, “I’ll respect that, of course. But,” he rose to his feet once more, though he did not leave Ecthelion’s hands, rather reached with his other one as well, “Know that I’ll still be waiting if you decide to come, should you want to.” 

 

He couldn’t help it, not with all the emotions that had reached a crescendo within him, and so, Ecthelion wrapped his arms around Elcallon’s shoulders, pulling him into a hug that knocked the other elf forward, who fell over him, flailing wildly. 

Elcallon shifted so he wouldn’t cast his weight over Ecthelion, his elbows over his shoulders. They were both laughing already, and perhaps crying as well. 

 

“Thank you.” he whispered. 

 

“Don’t say that!” Elcallon whined, “No, seriously. Don’t. I’m not good at dealing with all your sincerity, it’s a bit much for me to handle.” 

 

Ecthelion laughed into his shoulder, and Elcallon patted him back awkwardly. “I’m a mess today, so if you start crying, I bet I will too.”  

 

“Feel free to. Crying now means you won’t cry later, doesn’t it?” 

 

He knew Elcallon was rolling his eyes, but he didn’t say anything, rather gave Ecthelion one last squeeze before he pulled away. “You don't need to sound so sure.” he scowled exaggeratedly. 

 

Elcallon left at quarter to four, reiterating at least three more times that he would save a place for Ecthelion if he would come for the performance at the night’s celebration until the older elf threatened to shoo him away. 

The sun had begun its descent to the horizon, painting the kitchen walls in shades of warm gold, the shadows crept along under Ecthelion’s bare feet as he stepped towards the open window feeling the gauze of the curtain flutter against his cheek. 

 

If he leaned forward and looked out, he would have seen the growing crowd that had begun to gather by the far side of the shore, in and around the harbour; but even without that, he could hear the sounds of their voices, countless elves talking in hushed whispers that rose like a sandstorm to cacophony. 

Some memory from the past week supplied him with the knowledge that the royal houses of Finwë and Olwë, and of Greenwood the Great that awaited their Elvenking, would convene at the pavilions that had been constructed over the hills. 

 

And a rather unhelpful part of his subconscious mind supplied him with an unnecessary titbit about the fact that the harbour was not further than a distance that could be crossed in but a few minutes, should he take the somewhat secluded route through the beach, and run as swift as the wind. 

Ecthelion resolved to not dwell on the matter, trying to tell himself there was no point to idle thought, but he knew better than ever that it was because he was afraid, a decision that he had intended to set in stone, for the better , could be washed away in the waves of his longing without a second’s thought, if at all he let his hopes lead his rational mind astray. 

 

He sighed to himself, slender fingers smoothing the creases that had been left on the table cloth in his haste to open the front door, he plucked the orange that had been left unpeeled off the surface. 

He threw it up into the air once, twice, and once again, found himself sitting by the window, eyes closed and mind wandering. Ecthelion didn’t know long he sat in the gentle glow of the evening sun. 

 

He thought idly of what everyone would make of his absence, Ecthelion had lived in Aman so long that it was no secret that he had been waiting , he wondered what stories would be whispered amongst all those who knew him and knew of him.

Rog would be worried, that he knew, and Ecthelion was half-afraid his friend would come marching to his house to drag him out, and hoped Elcallon had conveyed some part of his decision to stay back. 

He thought about Elrond, who had taken with his wisdom the naïve hope that Ecthelion had held onto, he had made him aware of so much more , but in turn who had offered him another sort of hope. Or perhaps he had offered him the vision of reality, and maybe, if Glorfindel came back to him, there would be another meaning that would colour whatever became of their relationship. 

There was no doubt that Elrond was expecting him, he had made that abundantly clear, inviting Ecthelion over to his house, where all of the new arrivals would rest before the celebrations in the night, Glorfindel and Erestor since they were a part of Elrond’s house, Lord Celeborn since he was Celebrían’s father, and King Thranduil too, because Legolas had asked and Elrond had enthusiastically extended his hospitality to his dear friend. 

He was aware of the guilt that swum in his stomach about withholding the knowledge of his decision from Elrond, who would undeniably be disappointed about it. 

 

His treacherous mind traced familiar steps back to Laurefindil, not that it was a surprise, every thought in some way or another had come to orbit around the sun that was him in all these days. 

Ecthelion clenched his teeth, from memories, there was his face; shining eyes that fluttered shut at feather-light touches, a smile hesitantly turning the corners of his mouth, a long time ago when Gondolin had still not become home, when Ecthelion had mustered up all the courage in the world to tell Laurë the obvious. 

Rog had shoved him so hard when he had mumbled about not having his feelings reciprocated, Ecthelion had almost tripped into the fountain, it would have been quite a irony considering he had been named Lord of the Fountains; it was not his fault, Rog had begun to fill out his bulky frame and become stronger still, and apologising frantically, he had grabbed at shorter elf. 

 

“Laurefindil is completely head-over-heels in love with you, how can you not see that?” Rog had demanded, and Duilin, dragged out with the rest of them by an over-enthusiastic Egalmoth, had sighed exasperatedly. 

 

“Have you ever heard of not busting a lung every time you speak, Rog? You’ll have me going deaf by next week.”  

 

Egalmoth had snickered into his sleeve, dressed in bright indigo, with leaves of a vibrant ivy green embroidered on his lapels, “I bet you can still hear the wedding-bells ringing!” he had sing-songed, and Ecthelion had shot him a half-hearted glare, that had made him laugh harder. 

 

Duilin, who had not mellowed yet back then, had still been the voice of reason, Ecthelion’s trusted ally, “But Rog is right, Thel,” he had declared, “Just, make sure you don’t break his heart. I don’t even know him well, but I swear, if he’s hurt I’m sure we’ll all be after you.” 

 

Ecthelion had gasped dramatically when his friends had nodded solemnly, “Here I am talking about unrequited love, and you’ve already gotten to heartbreak?”  

 

They had been right, of course, but he had been lost in thought of how Laurefindil had been glowing after they had pulled away from one another, his hair unbound and mussed up by Ecthelion’s fingers running through gold locks, and his eyes still so bright, that Ecthelion had fallen in love again. 

And so many times after that. 

 

It had been an evening just as the one that was upon Aman at that moment, and Ecthelion buried his head in the nest of his elbows so he could stop thinking, breathed in the faint scent of eucalyptus and sea salt that found its way into his freshly washed clothes, finding the familiarity of home in what had always been so lonely. 

The world that floated to existence in the screen of his eyelids was a dark cobalt blue, mists, like those from rainy days by the coast, curled in his mind’s eye, revealing a masterpiece of violet sky and dying streaks of sunset orange, rolling hills that loomed beyond and grey clouds, a threat of the storm. 

When he raised his head once again, vision swimming as his eyes were flooded with evening sunlight, he saw that there wasn’t a trace of the rain. 

The sky, in the reality that he had tried to run from, was a blazing blue, stretching to the impossible blue of the sea, at the horizon painted in shades of pale gold. Outside, like white noise that he barely had registered in his still woozy mind, was a dim, droning sort of cacophony; whether it was the gushing waves, or the chattering people, he did not know, perhaps both, crowds were easily excitable, weren’t they? 

 

Ecthelion rubbed at his face, the cheek that had been pressed too long against a rumpled sleeve, and leaned forward, almost the whole of his upper body hung out of the window as he tried getting a glimpse at the crowd. 

They were moving, the people should not have been such a large number, most were expected at the night’s celebration, not the harbour; perhaps they were loyal subjects, he supposed, it was common knowledge that the Woodland King was greatly loved by his people who had been waiting for him to arrive. 

 

He huffed, the wind had been blowing with such a force that his hair, braided loosely into a fishtail had come almost undone, and he reached a hand to push the strands that had split onto his forehead back but paused midway, eyes widening. 

 

A ship, another ship , guided toward land by Ulmo’s gentle waves, glided over the expanse of the great Sea, with white sails unfurled and with tall figures standing at the deck that Ecthelion could pick apart, partly because of his elven eyesight, and partly because his gaze was trained with an alarming intensity at it. 

 

He took a step forward, instinctively, and was startled out of the trance as his knee knocked into the wooden leg of the table. Reeling from the shock of it all, the sharp pain that shot up his leg, the ship that had seemed as if it had appeared out of thin air, and the want that spread like trills of lightning from the thunderous beat of his own heart to the fingertips of his shaking hands. 

 

Ecthelion stepped back, and with that step he seemed to fumble over two more, before his fingers tightened around the handle of a chair, and he tried to force in a breath through his lungs that felt weak and disused. 

 

The ship was closer now, so close that he could see two heads of silver, one of blinding gold, and another raven. 

The crowd, not so far away, as if surging with renewed life, cheered heartily as the ship edged closer still, and by the pavilions too, there were some who leaned forward over the rails, curiosity gleaming in the brightness of their eyes.

 

But Ecthelion watched with bated breath, and in his mind, wherever it had lost itself in the lingering silence and the frightening furore, the haze of his head, strewn with passing sights and fleeting feelings, a thought occurred to him; that the future was just around the corner, perhaps he could race forward, catch it in the bruising grip of his fingers, before it flew past him. 

 

Perhaps, Ecthelion considered, he should follow the future, the ship. 

 

Perhaps, he could catch up in time, before Glorfindel’s feet would sink into the sand and before he caught his first glimpse of Valinor in what was not his first lifetime; before the tides would rush at the shore and before time would fly past him, the grace and the ease of a dragonfly on iridescent wings, here a moment and gone the next.   

 

The ship was not so small now, almost here, but he didn’t notice. Ecthelion scrambled to tear the robe off where he had slung it over the chair, arms shooting through the sleeves, before he rushed past, a whirlwind. 

 

Vaguely, he wondered whether he had left the door ajar or not, but then the wind was in his hair as he ran, silken strands of black that spilled into his eyes, caught in his mouth as he ran and ran and ran. 

The world was a blur of green as he raced down the grove of trees, the sight of the sparkling blue of the sea as he turned sharply by the  curve of the dirt path knocking his breath away; had the ship already docked? 

 

No regrets, that was all he had asked for, but still he ran, thoughts one and actions another; nothing but hope fueled him now, reason thrown to the mercy of the waves, Ecthelion wanted , hadn’t he always, and now he chased time. 

 

His chest was heaving by the time he skidded to a halt behind a line of people who stood on their toes to watch, and he ran a rough hand through unruly strands of wind-ruffled hair, eyes wandering and catching on the white sails, like billowing clouds. 

 

They parted with ease for Ecthelion of Gondolin, Lord of the Fountain, but truly, he was nothing more than a half-crazed man, with battered breaths and hope in his eyes; the whispers were in awe, in curiosity, but he paid them no mind, the crowds were but chains that held him trapped in the deafening silence, a shroud of storm clouds.

 

He ran. 

Ecthelion, in thoughts that came and went before he could think them through, thought that the rivers of raindrops could certainly find their way back to the Sea, if they wanted to so badly. 

If they wanted so much, even if time that had lingered with silence was passing by like sand through fingers, the river would cross into the sea, they would be one, and they would find home. 

 

There was sand, he realised, at a point when it threatened to choke him in the throat, when the crowd did not have to be asked to break, and let him pass as if he was a breath of wind, when they willingly moved out of the way so he could run. 

 

And so he ran.   

He ran to the Sea, like the sun that drowned in a pool of gold as it grazed at the horizon. 

 

The ship had docked already, some from the royal houses had assembled at a distance beyond the pier, the crowd embraced all those who disembarked, and then shrunk back to allow them a path to trace back to the pavilions. 

 

Ecthelion’s lungs burnt with exertion, his heart beat in his throat and then in the pit of his stomach, breaths harsh and eyes still overbright. 

Something , inside him, somewhere , blazed from a flame to a forest fire; it did not burn so much, Ecthelion realised, as it warmed, something familiar, reassuring. Perhaps it was the hope that he had been feeding himself, what had at a time become poison, now sweet like nectar once again; nevertheless, with strength that came from nowhere but perhaps the force of his will, Ecthelion surged forward once more. 

 

He ran. 

The moment chased, just past his reach, blinding in the glimmer of a stray sunray, and Ecthelion clenched his teeth, wanting . 

 

And he ran further, through dunes of sand and through mingling crowds, the world a blur of silence. 

He ran. Until. 

 

Until there was no need to. 

 

What was before him was the Sun, and behind the sun, twin shadows. 

A crescendo of hearts, when their gazes met, the air tasted of lightning, and Ecthelion inhaled sharply. 

 

Bathed in light, he who was light, brighter than the Sun, his Laurë, looked back at him with eyes brimming with tears, spilling starlight. 

He stood with an arm outstretched behind him, fingers laced in a grip with the hand of another whom Ecthelion did not recognise, maybe he didn’t bother to let his eyes wander either, so consumed by Laurefindil, Glorfindel who was one and the same, yet inexplicably more . 

 

They breathed as one, as if their hearts beat in sync, and perhaps they did, and perhaps the burn was of their feä, and Ecthelion could say nothing more than let the burden of his hopes crash to the ground, shatter like shards of glass, washed into the sea.

 

“Laurë.” 

A rough exhale, centuries of hope, perhaps they would soon be regrets. 

If Ecthelion had been a whirlwind, what crashed into him was a comet, but yet, he opened his arms, wanting to swallow the sun, to hold the light within himself. 

 

Glorfindel was warm, and Ecthelion felt as if he would die again, at the firmness of his arms as they wrapped around his neck, and the feather-light touch of his hair as Glorfindel curled into the grip of his arms. 

 

He let his eyes fall shut, exhausted in slumber, living in a dream, his fingers found their way into Laurë’s hair, and his arms, bruised with strength hoisted Glorfindel up, and in the quiet chortle he let out, Ecthelion laughed freely, in relief of the shattered silence. 

And etched upon his eyelids, beyond the drowning sun and flying trees, where the rivers of raindrops, pools of fire light made their way to the depths of the ocean, was the world, that craving completion, reached to touch the sky. 

 

 

Notes:

Phew.
That was a long ride.
Yeah, I put the whole of Pink in the Night at the start, but it's such a beautiful song, I couldn't bear not to.

(Please, please, please tell me what you think. I thrive off any and every piece of feedback I can get,,,,, and um I hope the plot isn't getting too boring! I promise the story will move forward soon,,,, <333 Tell me what you think on @yearnfortheoceans on Tumblr if you're okay with it or here in the comments if you can!)

Next chapter has more reunions and also Thranduil!

As always, thank you for reading! I love you all, stay safe and healthy! <3

Chapter 4: Four.

Summary:

Even if home has not yet been found.
If it still lays beyond the threshold of this beginning, or remains still unearthed in the depths of their hearts;
Is it not enough that a journey has begun?

Or,
Thranduil reaches out and is met halfway.
Family reunions.
And as always, internal monologues.

Notes:

Happy spring, my beloved readers!
I'm not sure how long ago I updated last, but I presume it was at least a month ago? In any case, I apologise for the delay profusely, and I hope this kind of happy chapter makes up for it!
As always, I'm eternally grateful to you all for reading!

Hoping you haven't lost interest in this story :") I wish you'll enjoy the chapter!
(Please don't hesitate to leave any comments or thoughts, I'm low on motivation so I'd appreciate it so so much if I could know how my writing is being received!)

 

4.

          make a wish on each one, so the folklore goes

and your wish will come true                          what

                                did you wish for

something to hold                            something to let go of

                            into a river that melts                            into the sea

—Angela Gabrielle Fabunan, from "The Bridge Between the Falls", The Sea That Beckoned

 

 

To put to words what Thranduil felt as Glorfindel dove into Ecthelion’s arms, would be to say nothing at all. 

And in truth, the Elvenking did not think he felt anything; not hurt, nor resentment, neither disappointment, nor resignation. 

His hands fell to his sides, limp, and perhaps slackened with the knowledge that ultimately, it had been Thranduil who had let go.  

Even when Glorfindel had held on with a bruising grip, the warmth of his palms would have burnt holes into Thranduil’s skin, but they had been quivering when he had smoothed his fingers between the spaces of his friend’s own. 

He had looked down at his hands, they were, after all the trials and tribulations that he had imagined but not encountered, all he was left with. There had been a river of hope, somewhere within him, but it had flowed past the sea somewhere into the clouds. And he was, still that boy, still watching the sun, but the world was no longer on fire, and his hands no longer burnt. 

 

From the corner of his eye, Thranduil could feel the weight of Erestor’s eyes on him; the burden of his gaze felt too heavy to brush off, it felt as if Thranduil meant something to him, as if there was something he had still to do, in order to give himself hope. And perhaps that was what Erestor wanted from him too, hope. 

 

Had they not promised to stumble together? 

Had they not promised to make their way across, hand in hand, as the tides rose and fell? 

Where did that leave Erestor now, Thranduil wondered, what meaning had he made of whatever had happened just now? Had he taken it as defeat? 

 

Had Thranduil himself taken it as defeat as well? 

But then again, what was defeat if he hadn’t known what victory would mean?  

 

Perhaps homecoming itself was some sort of a victory? Perhaps victory would come with time, with home , but the hour for thoughts had passed the second they had disembarked from the ship. 

 

Thranduil’s mind, flooding with thoughts, had now been silenced once more. But he supposed it was a silence rather pleasant, numbing, and like the tinge of warmth in the refreshing breeze, it was comforting. 

 

He took in a breath, but it remained caught in his throat. 

A blur of green, leaves in the wind, slammed into him with a force that was at once fierce and tender. The boy, his boy, grown before his eyes and grown greater still with courage, was in his arms once again. 

 

“Ada.” he said. 

 

And from what had moments before been a lover’s heart, his was a father’s once again; Thranduil held him close as he possibly could, eyes squeezed shut, lost in the glimpse of an old, old memory, when Legolas had been younger still and so much smaller . 

 

“Legolas,” he murmured, pressing his lips for a moment to the top of his head, and Legolas, almost as tall as him but not quite as broad, tucked his head into his father’s chest. Thranduil smoothened his flaxen hair, endeared by his son, a hero who had come victorious from a seemingly impossible quest, his pride and joy, but at the end of the day, his child first. 

 

“I’m sorry I took so long.” he told him, and smiled dotingly as Legolas shook his head, still tucked in the crook of his arms, as he used to when he had been a baby. 

 

“All that matters to me is that you are here now, Ada.” Legolas declared, smiling brightly. 

It made the corners of his eyes crinkle, Thranduil remembered, as they always had when he grinned, and though his face was now sharper and older, his joy felt still as contagious as it had been when he had been so young; the drop of starlit hope in the grey of Thranduil’s life.  

It had always been only the two of them for the longest time. 

Following the political alliance that had been their marriage and the birth of Legolas, the heir apparent, Thranduil and his wife, who hadn’t quite become the Queen, had decided with mutual agreement to part ways. 

It hadn’t been a practice so common, but following the Battle at Dagorlad and the death of his father, Thranduil had made the decision of letting her go, and they had remained on amicable terms; she had lived in the palace, and they had both aimed to provide what would be best for their son. 

But Greenwood had darkened, and she had perished in the course of it, when Legolas had still been too young to understand matters of loss and of death, and that perhaps had been a mercy in itself; that he had not remembered his mother to the extent he would be broken-hearted with her gone. 

 

Legolas, who reached almost upto Thranduil’s forehead when he had risen to his full height once again, craned his neck to scan the scene beyond them, from the direction he had come from. 

Thranduil followed his gaze, and looking at how the people drifted into their own circles, to catch up and retreat into their own lives, thought to laugh out loud. 

He could not understand what visions the people could have had of them; the last of the elves or not, at the end of the day, what else could they be except travel-weary, hastily clothed in the patched-up glory that had been forgotten in quieter, lonelier years

All they had brought over to the Other Side were memories, in some, twisted to regret; tenderly cradling their hopes for what could be, that they had brought all the way across the Sea, but yet, crowned in sorrow of what had passed, and what in this world was already forgotten.  

Thranduil wished they too would be given the liberty to be selfish this time around, rather than to have their end symbolise a new beginning; wished he could be left unseen, unadmired, and unknown. 

 

It seemed to Thranduil that it was what they all wished for, for now at least, until they would be healed again and called to be part of the whole world again; though for now they were too weary to be resigned to any other but the world of their very own. 

Even Glorfindel, who in Thranduil’s eyes at the least, had been like a spark of the sun, the moment they had set foot onto land. Beloved of two worlds, two pasts and the future that was haloed in the ebbing sunlight. 

 

(Nothing like he had been only some minutes ago, a weary soul rattling in a cage of bones and flesh; when he had shaken his head, smiled so half-heartedly, the honesty sounding like nails raking over glass in the soft sigh that he spoke with. 

Maybe that was who Glorfindel was with Thranduil, an overcast day in misled hopes for rain, and with Ecthelion, the sun itself.)

 

And even so, he couldn’t help but love him the same, Thranduil mused; it meant something to the smallest and hungriest part of him, that he had known who Ecthelion never could. Perhaps in that manner they were evenly matched, not that he would seek out a fight, of course not. 

 

Thranduil caught sight of Glorfindel’s head of flaming gold, caught in the fire of the dying sun rays, still in the circle of Ecthelion’s arms, where he seemed content to remain as long as the lifetimes they had been apart. 

He sighed, half-infuriated with himself, but still wistful, before he shook the thoughts away and turned to the present, and what was more precious to him, undoubtedly. 

 

If Glorfindel had allowed himself to dwell in the moment, lose himself completely into the world that had cherished and awaited and remembered him as he had, then Thranduil thought to do the same. 

It seemed to Thranduil, even with his foolish love lost, he would always have his father’s doting heart; even left with only his hands, wasn't there a whole world waiting, if he were to reach out?

 

It appeared as though Thranduil, had only now in so long, realised that he had always been waiting, and wanting, what the Forest had let go when he had. 

The Forest, that always gave, had led him to the Sea, that had never promised him anything; but the Sea had brought him to the Other Side, which was now the Only Side that was left for him to walk. 

Thranduil pulled Legolas into a hug, catching his son by surprise, making the younger elf stumble and yelp, before he huffed. 

"Ada, you really have missed me haven't you?" 

 

“I should have come sooner, Little Leaf.” he murmured, clenching his teeth as tears flowed. 

 

Legolas rubbed his back comfortingly, just a little hesitant, Thranduil didn’t think he had ever let his son see him cry. “It’s alright Ada,” he crooned, “You’re here now.” 

 

As he listened to Legolas' gentle murmurs, the ache that he had carried all this while seemed to ease upon his shoulders. 

Thranduil thought, rather distractedly, that the warmth that threaded through his son's voice had sung itself right through his father's. Tender roots that spread like salve through their throats, while Thranduil's, bled with thorns. 

Perhaps, he had been born weary and the two of them, youthful. 

His birth had marked the approaching end of winter when the world had been awaiting the spring that he had been named for. 

A quiet, sincere elfling, who had forgotten his mother’s name,who played with a pair of twins with their wings cut off whose parents sailed amongst the clouds, and a golden child who spoke strange words, from the past that had gone down in flames. 

Legolas had had better company, Thranduil was sure, another pair of twins, wild and mischievous, and their beloved sister, named for a star.   

“What matters is that you are here now, ion nin.” 

The safety of his childhood, a wisp of clouds and the smell of sage. 

His father's voice descended upon him like the boon of sleep after a long day's toil, and his arms drew around both Legolas and Thranduil, the three of them, lost over the Ages and found all together. 

 

"Adar." He too said. 

The grief of countless years of the monstrous past that had carved itself a gorge in the depths of some bruisingly numb part of his heart had finally found somewhere to empty itself. 

Perhaps, that was the healing the Sea was still guiding him toward. To put it all down somewhere, this weight of living on. 

Thranduil curled into the family he had been left with, he, the winter’s frost cradled between summer’s call and spring’s flowers, and let the tears flow. 

They were drops of rain, rivers finding their way to the Sea. 

 

"I'm here, Thranduil." Oropher said, curling his fingers into a reassuring grip around Thranduil’s shoulder. "We are all here."  

 

His fingers stroked lightly over silver strands, and Thranduil smiled. For some moments, he looked from his father to his son, who looked to be two peas in a pod, their leaf-green eyes and flaxen hair; wiping away a stray tear before it could make a descent down his cheeks, and was noticed by either of them.

 

“Oi Legolas, what did you say that made your Ada cry?” Oropher was demanded, lip curling into the tell-tale hint of smile that had always edged into a smirk, the one that both his son and grandson shared. 

 

Legolas rolled his eyes in response, and Thranduil choked out a little laugh, seeing himself in his son, and his son in his father. 

It was him, who was the bridge between the two, of their shared blood, and sandwiched between the two of them, looking over their heads, he sighed; lending the evening another sound, amongst the lilting notes of a roaring sea, roaring crowd, and the whistling wind. A burden shared between three shoulders, a sigh of the quiet, breathing tranquility into this moment, that had come and gone before he had even realised it. 

 

The dread he had felt standing at the bow of the ship, now eased itself into a steady weight of homecoming, seeping into his bones. 

Like sun in the daylight, monsoon rain on summer’s earth, and frost melting in the breath of spring.  

 

* ~ * ~ *

“I thought your foot was sprained, what are you doing here?” Legolas piped up as they all, finally, stood apart once again, making Oropher’s grin turn stale. 

 

“You promised you wouldn’t Thranduil, of all people, that!” he hissed.  

 

“Adar.” Thranduil sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

 

“Oh come on, you just got here! Don’t tell me you’ll start worrying again,” his father groaned, and then, changing tactics swiftly, chided with a casual wave of his hand, “I'm healed already, the cast has been off since day before yesterday.” 

 

Legolas scoffed, “Didn’t Lord Elrond insist on bed-rest for two weeks?” 

 

“I can’t believe I’ll have to deal with both of you now,” Thranduil lamented, “Why did it have to be only me that your recklessness skipped?” 

 

Oropher passed Legolas a scowl, muttering about what a little brat his grandchild was, while Legolas denied Thranduil’s comment with indignation, “Ada, really, I’m really not half as bad as him!” 

 

“Wasn’t it you who went your merry way on a perilous quest when I had only sent you to Rivendell to report an escape?” Thranduil pointed out. 

 

“You can’t keep bringing that up every single time.” Legolas argued. 

 

“Wait, was it even you who told me that—” 

 

“Alright, that’s enough.” Legolas interrupted quickly, passing a snickering Oropher a half-hearted glare, “I learnt my lesson, didn’t I? And I’m sure we can all agree that it worked out for the best.” 

 

Thranduil rolled his eyes, “Sure, for you, Little Leaf. My hair began to grey overnight, the palace physicians were left speechless.” 

 

“Well,” Oropher commented innocently, “Not that there’d be much of a difference to be seen, really.”  

 

Thranduil rolled his eyes, “You say it like your hair isn’t barely just half a shade more yellow.” 

 

“Yellow!?” Oropher mouthed, shaking his head, “How dare you?” 

 

“Here we go again,” Legolas groaned. 

He took both their hands in his, dragging them forward exasperatedly, past another pocket of crowd. 

 

Oropher tried to dignify himself, and then shrugged good naturedly, “Ah, since you have only arrived, Thranduil, perhaps we’d better head back home so you can rest before the festival, eh?”

 

“The festival?” Thranduil echoed, but received no response from Oropher who waved casually at the people, with Legolas following suit. 

A group of three ellyn waved back merrily, with one among them dressed in robes dyed an emerald colour so rich, that Thranduil forgot his manners a moment and stared hard. The brightly-dressed one noticed Thranduil’s gaze and smiled brightly at him, inclining his head in greeting. 

Caught off-guard, and while cursing himself for having forgotten his manners so soon, Thranduil offered the company a hasty bow, trying to plaster an expression that would be suitably polite and respectable. All of them seemed startled by his gesture, before one of them bowed back, rather awkwardly. 

 

“Don’t mind my son, Duilin,” Oropher told them, “He’s too formal for his own good, I’d say.” 

 

The third, a muscular elf with thickly woven braids of black and gold, grinned wickedly, answering for a solemn Duilin, “Of course not! Aman takes getting used to, and King Thranduil has only arrived this evening, hasn’t he?” 

 

Oropher cast an adoring glance at his son, “He has an abundance of time to ease into life here, thankfully.” 

He snapped his fingers, remembering something suddenly, “Say, Rog, haven’t you and your friends come for one of the arrivals? I could swear I saw Ecthelion run all the way here, he stirred up quite a storm.” 

 

Thranduil’s head shot up as he heard the name, his startlement so embarrassingly evident that Legolas eyed him questioningly. 

 

“Quite literally, too.” Rog chuckled, “Elcallon had told me he’d said he wasn’t coming. But it seems like he was just waiting to make a scene, huh?” 

 

The brightly dressed ellon spoke up, “And some scene he’s made too, our Ecthelion has a flair for the dramatic apparently,” he made a vague gesture toward the back somewhere, and Thranduil clenched his jaw, telling himself not to look. 

Oropher and Legolas both followed his gaze, the former whistled lowly, “Well, what matters is that he is happy isn’t it?” 

 

“Oh, I'm quite sure he must be over the moon,” Rog grinned, “He has been waiting all this while.” 

 

“And so has Glorfindel.” Legolas replied, “He got the grand entry he had always wanted.” 

 

Thranduil said nothing, though he made sure to school his features into an expression that was polite.

He glanced at his hands, the spaces between his fingers looked rosy gold in the evening sunlight. He thought of his hands as they had been that evening, with the walk of sunbeams as Glorfindel had tugged at his wrist, and as Thranduil had threaded them together. 

 

(Do you mean it? Thranduil had asked him so tenderly, the echo of words lingering still on the roof of his mouth. Do you want me to let go?) 

 

Oropher nodded too, “I hope we’ll see you all at the festival tonight, then. We’re off so Thranduil can rest for a while.” 

 

Rog gave him a two-fingered salute, “Of course. We’d better let those lovebirds know we’re here too, it’s almost sundown in a while.”

The brightly dressed elf offered Thranduil an even brighter smile, "Welcome home." he greeted merrily, bumping shoulders as he passed by. Duilin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange too waved Legolas goodbye, and then caught up with the rest of his companions. 

 

(No. Glorfindel had said.

The honesty had stung, coming out of nowhere. He had not answered with a question for once, and Thranduil had loved him so much more.)

 

Thranduil saw him press close to the vibrantly dressed one, murmuring close to his ear. “Who is that Elcallon is running after?” 

 

And Rog, suddenly alert, “Elcallon?” 

 

Thranduil’s gaze lingered where Rog’s eyes shot to as he cursed under his breath; if there had been anything spectacular to see, then Thranduil had missed it, but even still, he could tell that it was just that which had brought the urgency in the other elf’s amicable tone. 

The absence, and the space it had left behind; the silence underlying their toneless murmurs, and the circle of people that widened, till the chain burst, and they mingled freely into new crowds. 

 

Rog broke into a run, sending the sand flying again, though he raised a hand to shield his own eyes from it; Thranduil saw a vision of silver before his eyelids fluttered shut, a world of sunset plunged in darkness. 

 

Of early autumn in Imladris, when the swirling mists would edge toward the valley, wisps of clouds would reach to touch the green tree canopies; the rains would come from nowhere, and catch them off guard, to the King’s annoyance.

And again, there he would be again, Glorfindel, a strange child of the forgotten past, asking if they could let themselves go for once and be drenched in the rain of Arda one last time.

And there again, ever sincere Thranduil, who would say no, we can’t have you catching a cold , tugging Glorfindel by the wrist so he could rush them somewhere the roof hadn’t caved in. 

 

But still, Glorfindel never struggled once he let Thranduil get a hold of him, and the rain never stopped until Glorfindel wanted to be left alone. 

They had found refuge in the garden shed that was separated from the Healing Wards by only a corridor, and Glorfindel, soaked to the bone, sitting cross-legged on top the old wooden desk, had tugged Thranduil closer. 

 

The lightning had struck as Glorfindel had looked straight at him, and the thunder had been muffled by the clouds as he had spoken. “Won’t you be lonely if you stay back?” 

Thranduil had raised his hand to smoothen the tangles in golden strands that had darkened to honey-brown, and hummed as he had dragged his fingers through. Glorfindel had closed his eyes, smiling, and so he had spoken. 

 

“Why? Will you be lonely if I stay back?” he had asked back. Not expecting to be heard, and not quite sure if he wanted to be. 

But it seemed as though Glorfindel would rather listen to him rather than the rain, and so, the storm had hushed by itself, or so it seemed. 

 

"I will.” 

He had spoken honestly, and Thranduil could tell. For Glorfindel wove through spirals of words when he lied, hoping to seem sincere, but Thranduil knew it was his own way of letting himself be seen when he didn’t try to show anything in turn. 

 

He had leaned forward, chin raised and eyes hypnotic, and Thranduil had swiftly caught his wrists in the grasp of his fingers, knowing Glorfindel had something to ask of him. His friend had sighed, tilted his head to the side and looked at Thranduil, helplessly fond, and yet, beseechingly. 

 

“Of course, I’ll be terribly lonely, Thran, if you aren’t with me,” he had murmured, “And I won’t care about anything else at all, if they ask me what is wrong, I’ll tell them that I have been cheated of paradise.” 

 

“Will you, really?” Thranduil had said, smiling too, letting himself feel as though Glorfindel already loved him. “You’ll tell the Valar that?” 

His grip slackened, and Glorfindel suitably exploited the weakness so he could lay a hand over Thranduil’s shoulder, and with the other, seeking to press his fingers to Thranduil’s pulse. 

 

“I’ll tell Elbereth herself, that there’s no paradise for me. Not without my dearest friend Thranduil.” 

 

“And then?” 

 

“And then?” Glorfindel scoffed, “What else would you have me do, you heartless bastard? There’s only one ship unless you build yourself another one.”

 

Thranduil had rolled his eyes, “I thought you’d talk the Valar into giving you what you want.” 

For a moment, he had imagined a world where Glorfindel would have stayed back with him, given up on Aman. The realisation of his foolishness struck silver as lightning. In a day or two, they would find a tree blacked and burnt by the heaven's wrath.  

 

Glorfindel had sighed, “Why wait that long? Since it is you I want, can’t I just ask you to come with me?” 

 

Thranduil would have choked on his breath if he hadn’t got well past that point when they had been younger, he had learnt by then to hide his surprise whenever Glorfindel let his charm out, and to contain his blushes, though his racing heart was too rogue for him to tame. 

Sighing, his friend had pressed his forehead against Thranduil’s lapels for a moment, taking a deep breath and letting it out, before he had squeezed his fingers tightly. “Won’t you think about it, at least? For my sake?”

 

The choice had been made already; if for Glorfindel’s sake, or for the future’s, they wouldn't know it. 

The Sea had called, just the same, and they had sailed forth, regardless.  

What had been left to stay back for? 

What secrets could the forest have whispered in his lonely ear that could have told him how to cherish the present? But then again, were there any pearls in the depths of the ocean that would give him the knowledge of what was to come?  

 

The past was the burden that they bore; the price for this elixir of immortality was of having to live on, to witness the turning of the world. A never-ending existence, one Age after another, a mere blink in the eyes of the Eldar. 

At least, that was what they said. 

But every century that faded into the dust of old tomes, of all the deaths and all the blood, those who lived on bore the burden of having to live. 

Every memory carried for centuries together, twisted to regret, a crown of thorns; and the light in their eyes was of sorrow shining, even if they spent aeons painting themselves to be ethereal, ageless, at the end, they would start to rot at the core.  

 

And then, they sailed. To head West, where the sun slumbered through the night to blaze at dawn in all its fiery glory. Perhaps, in the hope that would be where the light was never doused, where life could be retrieved.

Rather, revived.  

 

It could not be called cyclic, since there was no returning to Arda. That they had left to the Edain, as a relic to be remade. 

And so, the only path led them forward, beyond. 

Beyond the forest, beyond the valley, beyond the coast, and now, beyond the Sea. At the Other Side already, but there was so much as yet waiting to happen. 

 

It was a weary world then, a world with no escape, a world meant only for chasing wisdom and feeling incomplete. 

What was one to do with an impossibly long life? 

Already having come this far, beyond the epiphanies, past the blindfolds and over to letting the light of day flood his eyes, of dreading the journey and having accomplished it, what was left to learn? 

 

And for Thranduil, who was still at his first turning of the world, having come so far, had only now realised that there was much to heal from, much to overcome. Just standing here, watching the world in it’s turning, the inevitably incomplete eternality of time, of fate and of life, Thranduil was nothing but weary. 

It was all he had been left with, his empty hands that had neither the courage nor the will to hold on. And that emptiness that fueled a want for everything, the whole wide world, and the sun and the sea. 

Time went on, every end was a tunnel that bared it's mouth into another beginning; and caught in this circle of eternal existence, the world would only begin again, and again. 

 

“Ada! Aren’t you coming?” 

 

He couldn’t help but wished the sun would crash to the ground he was rooted to. That the burning sun would fall and raze the world to ashes. 

 

“I’m right behind you!” he called out. 

 

Set the world on fire and him with it. Then there would be nothing to want. 

 

No words left unsaid, no hands let go.

 

* ~ * ~ * 

 

Laurë was what he had said. 

 

And in one word, Glorfindel felt the passage of time rush past him, like a sword run through his stomach, and pulled out. 

The turning of worlds, beginning in the glow of Laurelin and Telperion and one end in fire and flame, and another, beginning forgotten and the end, yet out of reach. 

 

The warmth in his belly had felt like a stab, and so he had pressed a fist against his abdomen, gasping as he had tucked his chin over Ecthelion’s shoulder. 

He had felt himself lifted, toes curling, and the arm he had hung about as a noose around Ecthelion’s neck had tightened. 

 

One moment, he had thought to cry, at the exploding sun between his eyes and the sea of void that came after; he feared their reunion was doomed, the world would be razed to the ground, and Glorfindel, the fire. 

And then, cradled as though weightless in Ecthelion’s strong arms, he had cried, about the blood that would have seeped through the pale blue of his robes; the vision of death, blue tiles of shallow fountains, clear water tinted cherry-wine. 

 

The first words he had said, went unheard against Ecthelion’s chest, that too heaved with choking laughter and shuddering breaths. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Glorfindel had murmured, and mouthed it again and again and again to himself. 

 

Until Ecthelion had said to himself, “I love you.” 

 

Glorfindel had stiffened for a moment, having overheard a secret that was meant not yet for his ears. Then, he had laid his head over Ecthelion's beating heart, and listened in deathly silence; wishing desperately that he would remain beloved.

 

And so, the river melted into the Sea, and with it, drowned the Sun.

 

Notes:

Sorry this ended on a sad note.......... I swear it wasn't meant to!
And, I'm not quite sure if the familial interactions in here are, well, awkward or not? I somewhat based them on my relationship with my mother, but I'm still not very experienced in writing parent-child dynamics.

Next chapter will be longer and also with more characters, interactions etc. etc.
Look forward to Thranduil and Ecthelion's first meeting!

Please leave me comments if you can, any of your thoughts would mean the world to me!

As always, thank you for reading!
I hope I'll see you soon!

Chapter 5: Five

Summary:

The beginning of ever-after beyond the edge of tomorrow.
Maybe it is all about love, has it not always been?

Or,
The moment you all (well, I) have been waiting for!
The reunion!
Tooth-rotting fluff, maybe, and angst, because that's my specialty!

Notes:

Here's the longest chapter I've written yet!
7k words of Glorthelion's unconditional love for each other interspersed with some amount of plot.
Also, I got done with all my studying so I could post this chapter tonight in honour of my birthday, and yeah, it's tomorrow but I have another test day after so I can't post then.

BUT in any case, I hope you will all enjoy today's chapter!

5.  

 

Maps of the stars stretch

On your palms; when you touch me

I am immortal. 

― amethyst-sage-29

 

 

Laurë was what he had said. 

 

And in one word, Glorfindel felt the passage of time rush past him, like a sword run through his stomach, and pulled out. 

The turning of worlds, beginning in the glow of Laurelin and Telperion and one end in fire and flame, and another, beginning forgotten and the end, yet out of reach. 

 

The warmth in his belly had felt like a stab, and so he had pressed a fist against his abdomen, gasping as he had tucked his chin over Ecthelion’s shoulder. He had felt himself lifted, toes curling, and the arm he had hung about as a noose around Ecthelion’s neck had tightened. 

 

One moment, he had thought to cry, at the exploding sun between his eyes and the sea of void that came after; he feared their reunion was doomed, the world would be razed to the ground, and Glorfindel, the fire. 

And then, cradled as though weightless in Ecthelion’s strong arms, he had cried, about the blood that would have seeped through the pale blue of his robes; the vision of death, blue tiles of shallow fountains, clear water tinted cherry-wine. 

 

The first words he had said, went unheard against Ecthelion’s chest, that too heaved with choking laughter and shuddering breaths. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Glorfindel had murmured, and mouthed it again and again and again to himself. 

 

Until Ecthelion had said to himself, “I love you.” 

 

Glorfindel had stiffened for a moment, having overheard a secret that was meant not yet for his ears. Then, he had laid his head over Ecthelion's beating heart, and listened in deathly silence; wishing desperately that he would remain beloved.

 

And so, the river melted into the Sea, and with it, drowned the Sun.

 

 

The realisation of everything else, whatever lay beyond Ecthelion and his quiet breaths and the bruising grip of his arms, bled into Glorfindel’s awareness only when they had already parted. 

Their breaths still mingled, but now the wind rushed to the hollow that the space between their faces had left. 

And still, Glorfindel could feel the tentative touch of Ecthelion’s fingers against his waist as he drew his arms back to himself; and more than that, there was the lingering of his eyes, that did not seek to find their way to Glorfindel’s face, but watched over him all the same. 

 

Glorfindel smiled as brightly as he could have, aware of himself from the outsider’s perspective, and desperately eager to carve Ecthelion’s first sight of him into absolute perfection. 

The moment would come only once, and then go, without either of them realising it; since they would be enamoured in the next, Glorfindel had been determined for Ages and Ages to make it so. 

But still, what would remain of it would be the memory. 

Their long-awaited reunion, the only one yet, and so it had to mean something. 

 

(The first time around, Glorfindel had known him since they had both been elflings in Aman, not that he remembered enough to be sure; his dreams offered glimpses only of Gondolin, once in a while of careless days, and most times, of the grandeur of their mighty falls. 

The fire and the blood, the stake through his heart, and broken promises. 

The guilt, the dread, the desperation; the taste of salt, the smell of smoke. 

 

And, the last step he had taken into the abyss. 

Iron in the red of his mouth, and the nauseating sweetness of some twisted triumph. 

 

And now, the guilt, again.)  

 

For not the first time, neither in that life, and nor in that day, Glorfindel wanted to hold the face between his hands and say, do you remember me?

Will you remember who I was, for my sake?  

 

He hushed the voice that had begun to whisper once again, too terrified of letting himself give into the distraction of wanting to know what the abyss had begun to unearth from the unforgotten. 

Glorfindel raised his chin, seeking Ecthelion’s eyes, but yet, holding onto his side of the silence; and willing his other-half to know his heart and break it for him. 

He had spent the whole of his life waiting to be loved the way had been in another. Ecthelion was not smiling, but he was watching, open-mouthed. Against the clear grey of his irises, the blot of his pupil grew like a great storm, the hint of blue had been swallowed already by the dark. 

 

No words came. 

His hopes had risen to hear Ecthelion speak, to say what he had said to himself out loud, this time to Glorfindel; and like the waves, they retreated from the seashore. 

 

(His fëa had remained one and the same, through lifetimes; yet Glorfindel, had himself changed. 

The realisation of it, was not what he would have liked to corrupt with bitterness, and so he called it innocent, obvious. Had he not been remade? Broken and burnt in one lifetime, and in the other, re-embodied and put together once again; such was life, change could never be helped. 

It was the gospel of truth that was known, to the voice that incited this vitriolic anger at himself, and to any one else who should have come knowing the ways of the world, and not vain, foolish, and naïve as he had.)

 

In his throat, his folly was cast into acerbic rage, and before he could swallow it down or spew it out; Glorfindel spoke rashly, hurriedly: “Did you miss me?” 

 

And at the same time, Ecthelion breathed out, in the very likeness of a drowning man that had been dragged up to the shore. “It has been a long time.” 

 

(It sparked some ancient, buried image from the great unconscious of his memories; a bloodless face and pale mouth, wet strands that spilled into grey eyes like seaweed from the murky depths; blue light and numbing cold.) 

 

The solace he felt was euphoric, to say the least. 

His heart leapt to his throat, joyful and desperate and grateful at the sound of Ecthelion’s voice, and at the hoarseness of it, Glorfindel felt a pang of satisfaction. 

 

He coughed elegantly into his fist, “It really has.”

And then, as the neutral line he had schooled his mouth wavered into a giddy smile, “I missed you.” 

 

Painfully honest, he cringed at the realisation of already having said that so soon. 

And, for some reason, he said exactly that, “Am I moving too fast? Is it alright that I said that?” 

 

But, with some misplaced logic that Ecthelion would simply forget if he went on, Glorfindel added, with all the grace and conviction of an excitable child, “But, I have. And, I wanted to see you again, very badly.”

 

Rambling had, frankly, not been the impression he had been going for. 

Though they had loved each other since they had been still young, back in that life, this time around, Glorfindel had been determined to be unapologetically himself and charm Ecthelion nonetheless. 

 

And at his age, Glorfindel had grown to be disarmingly charming, in his own opinion at least; he had grown to become someone whose words were deliberate but came out sounding effortless. He wished he could have kept his mouth shut, though his self-assuredness was at the core, Glorfindel had no intention to sound foolish.  It was bound to be embarrassing, if Ecthelion would take this questionable impression as the one that reflected his understanding of Glorfindel-of-the-second-life. 

 

Before his speechless counterpart could say a word, Glorfindel interrupted before the silence could descend heavily upon them like a wet blanket. 

“Please,” he sighed, casting his eyes to the heavens for a respite from the embarrassment that was creeping up his neck, “Don’t think I’m usually like this.”

He hoped very desperately that his pleading was not so evident, but that he had still swayed Ecthelion to hopefully forget everything that had passed since they had pulled away. 

 

And that declaration of his embarrassment brought Ecthelion back to life. 

The way he looked to Glorfindel made him feel utterly at a loss, but at the same instant, embarrassingly in love, at the barely-concealed fondness in Ecthelion’s smile.

 

“So did I.” Ecthelion told him, staring right into his eyes. “More than you’ll ever know, and more than I could ever tell you.” 

 

Glorfindel blinked slowly, savouring whatever it was that the unrestrained affection that shone in silvery irises made him feel; how gratifying it was, to be regarded so tenderly by a gaze so kind. 

Undeserving, was what Glorfindel thought. 

And then, realised that what made his heart squeeze painfully, and yet so, wonderfully, was what Ecthelion’s apparition had regarded Glorfindel with in all his countless, forgotten, hidden dreams.

 

He felt unabashedly and helplessly loved.

It was unlike anything else, the realisation that it was he who was the object of these affections; who was being regarded so devotedly, so fondly, and so honestly.  And almost disbelieving, though it was no secret what Ecthelion’s eyes held, and how his fingers circled Glorfindel’s wrist, ghosting over his pulse.

 

He did not know what to make of it; becoming beloved at the first glance, ashamed of himself but loved, already , just the same. 

This love was deliberate and open, and he knew what exactly it meant; it made him feel free and complete; the river that had flown for aeons, and finally, met the sea. 

 

“I’m glad.” Glorfindel replied in a rush, all of a sudden registering where his thoughts ended and where reality ran along.  He ran a hand through the wisps of hair that had spilled into his eyes and then felt a smile bloom on his face as he remembered how Ecthelion had carded his fingers roughly through them. 

 

“So am I,” Ecthelion said, speaking as though his thoughts were far away, wandering already. 

 

Glorfindel took in him, the sharp, smooth lines of his face, light tan to his unmarred skin, his clenched jaw that made the muscles of his neck ripple. He studied his eyes, hooded and doe-like that looked tragically lovely when he smiled, and had always glittered when he would laugh, and let his gaze linger when Ecthelion stared back, just as unabashed. 

His lips were full, with faded mark of a cut by the left corner, something he hadn’t had a lifetime ago, if his dreams could serve as memories; back then, there had been tear in his ear, from an accident on the Ice and after that, a couple of stitches on his forehead, after the escapade at the main fountain with Rog and Egalmoth. 

Glorfindel unclenched the fist he had pressed against his stomach, and then, the arm hooked around Ecthelion’s neck; feeling the cool press of his palm even through the layers of robes against his side, Glorfindel sighed in content. 

 

The ache between his eyes, the burning in the pit of his stomach, all had been soothed with Ecthelion’s presence. But even with his eyes glazed, Glorfindel thought suspiciously of this serenity, perfection came with a price. 

Glorfindel wondered for a moment if Ecthelion had caught on to the act he was so eager to put on, self-conscious of whether his quest for proving himself, and being loved in return, was too obvious to the eyes of whom he had only just met. 

 

They stood facing one another, one moment passing, and then another; only they did not move.

Testing the waters, Glorfindel raised his chin. 

He tilted his head to the side, if their faces met, then their mouths would too. The shadow of Ecthelion’s lashes, ghosting over the pale skin under his eyes; his lips parted ever-so-slightly, the sound of his heart was the beat to which they danced around one another. 

For a moment, with how Ecthelion’s breath hitched and how his gaze appeared awestruck, dropping down wildly from blue-green-grey of the sea in Glorfindel’s eyes, to the sharpening curve of his bowed lips; Glorfindel’s gut had twisted, telling him that was it, and that he would lean in. 

And it would be as he had always imagined it, that he would be loved already, and it would be a fact carved into reality; not a doubt about it, that Ecthelion wanted him just the same, as he had in dreams, and in another faraway reality.   

 

Ecthelion’s hand trembled, the pads of his fingers fluttering against Glorfindel’s pulse; if he could feel it, the coursing of blood, and the breath in his lungs that had been ensnared and trapped in his throat, then Ecthelion too would have realised, as Glorfindel had, that they were both frightened. 

 

Of what he was so afraid of, Glorfindel did not want to tell himself. 

Because he already knew, had already been told, but did not feel himself strong enough to face it. 

 

The fear that ebbed and flowed, in each fraction of a moment that Glorfindel’s mouth tugged upward against the gold of his skin, was hidden deliberately by the mastery he had achieved over not letting the world see him. 

But even unseen, unrevealed through carefully constructed masks, through the ghost of his grin and the allure of his gaze, the fear still remained. 

And the voice taunted, still. At what cost? 

 

He wanted to scream back at it, at the void of himself, how far had he gotten anyway? 

What amazing joy had he found for which he was to pay the price? 

In two lifetimes, one yet stretching on to glory. 

Past the Darkening and the Ice. A death by the fall, among fiery dooms. 

And then, to be Returned, without choice and without question, plagued by a macabre past and christened a name that already carried a legacy. 

The struggle that had been life, the demanding courts and the disheartening wars and the stench of death from every corner, the sights he had seen; to be sent back when the grave had been so tranquil, of that death he had fallen to half-willingly, so frightened to be left alone. 

 

What was the reward for having held on that he was already being asked to pay the price? 

He had always been somebody else. 

And now, when he wanted to be an idea, a memory, precious of one lifetime, cast into an unfamiliar vessel with rebirth; Glorfindel was, painfully and unfortunately, himself. 

Then who else must it be?  The voice taunted, but at least, it let him speak for himself. 

 

And Glorfindel knew who he longed to be: he who was awaited, familiar, beloved.

The wish was Ages old, and the wish had been crafted to countless realities, and now, lost amongst thousands of others, effortlessly, intently sculpted fragments of himself, Glorfindel had realised the forsaken truth of his existence: That he was still left as the same boy with star-struck eyes, clueless and awed by the wonders of his past, unknowing and naïve and forever, unknown. 

Such was his legacy, of always finishing halfway at the race he had been toiling at throughout the impossibly long lifetime; only too late did the voice speak, or perhaps, he had never listened when the time had been right. 

 

And so here was the cost: the passage of time, a blade run through his being, as swift as the wind, and the consequence of the lives lost. 

Glorfindel, he was the consequence. 

 

The river that had, in one lifetime, touched the clouds, had in another, slithered through the bountiful earth. 

The river had crossed through realms and realities and broken fragments of time. And now, it had thrown itself wholeheartedly to the mercy of the sea, and the waves were hesitating to push it back to the shore. 

 

The river was the earth, but the sea too, that it had touched.  

 

The River was more , the voice had revealed. 

 

And Glorfindel watched Ecthelion watch him. 

His eyes betrayed not the struggle within, but reflected kaleidoscopic blue-green-grey dancing with curiosity. Glorfindel’s arm slithered to rest over Ecthelion’s shoulder, edging Ecthelion’s forearm to rest against his hip. 

His gaze wandered lingeringly over the flush of Ecthelion’s face, his haggard breaths, and wind-tousled hair, to the column of his throat that bobbed with apprehension, and the tense set of his broad shoulders; a strong spearman’s body, trembling with anticipation and bewilderment. 

 

Glorfindel knew what Ecthelion saw of him, it was exactly what he aimed to show; charm offensive and the enigma of his sheer confidence. 

There was nothing in Glorfindel that had not been, in some way or another, adored by the world. The knowledge of it was, not boastful nor narcissistic, but rather, honest. 

 

But as he watched, and watched, and watched, all he thought of was what Ecthelion would have wanted to see. 

That knowledge which the world had decided to make forbidden for him; it was a pity, Glorfindel had thought, that he could not right away read minds. 

Perhaps Ecthelion’s mind had been the only one he had ever wanted to know in that moment, to look through his eyes and see what it was about him that did not quite fit straight into whoever he had been.  

To know that, and change it. 

 

To know that, and become it. 

 

Perhaps, all his life, Glorfindel had only ever wanted to be loved, not in parts, but as a whole. Both lifetimes, in death and through life, by everyone. 

But especially him, who they had said would have been waiting. Who had, barred open his arms and crushed Glorfindel to his embrace, and cradled his head, and touched his hair, and had bitten tender words into his shoulder. 

 

Who had loved him. 

Who had not waited a moment to hold him back and look, and had held him. 

That had been the sea, embracing the river that had shot like an arrow, leaving the earth behind. 

 

And now, Glorfindel saw that the sun had begun to set. The sky in Aman was painted to perfection, the pool of gold reflected in the greying, raging ocean and the clouds, gathering at the horizon to wish rain upon parched sands. 

 

The river is more, was what the voice had said. 

And he knew now what he had always known, which was that the River was him. 

 

But looking now, at Ecthelion and his storming eyes, Glorfindel wished desperately that he did not have to be so . 

 

Perhaps, the River that was the land and the sea, was more than the Sea had ever wanted to hold.

 

* ~ * ~ *     

 

The moment will come, and it will go, but the memory of it will stay; Elcallon had said.  

 

Would he regret being caught in that moment, that which would come to mean so much? 

 

But even if mountains of regrets fell upon him and crushed him to death a second time, what good would that be if he never knew what was wanted from him? 

And what use of dying if life began again and again? 

 

As he stared back, he thought to himself that Glorfindel watched him, like a game, a curiosity, a fascinating creature caught and woven in the damning silver of a spider's silk.

And what Ecthelion could feel, in the rush of blood that warmed his cheeks like summer afternoons, and in the half-formed murmurs of his mouth that he wished he could press into the crescent of a smile in the face before his, was love. 

 

Perhaps Ecthelion had always been doomed to love him. 

Just as he had been doomed to be Laurefindil for evermore, in Ecthelion's hope drunken eyes. 

 

This Glorfindel, who was Laurefindil in face and frame and frighteningly watchful gaze, was not his Laurefindil to the core.

And that Ecthelion could say for sure because his mind wandered in confounded circles, and his eyes could not pinpoint a sight to fix his gaze upon. 

And because, already , in just moments, Ecthelion had already fallen deep in love. 

 

He had pressed that love into Glorfindel's shoulders; what he had carried all these years for Laurefindil, of the past, of the youth, of his dreams, Ecthelion had already cast as a burden of hope over this Glorfindel already. 

 

Glorfindel, in name, and Laurefindil, in form, and Ecthelion had always wanted to love him wholeheartedly, freely, for whom he would know this person to be. 

 

But it was frightening, humbling, despairing, how he had already cast that shadow of his love of lifetimes onto Glorfindel, who had crossed the sea and had let himself be held. 

And it was magnificent, how he had become that shadow, and made it light. 

 

This Glorfindel was not the one he had died for, perhaps, this Glorfindel was carved out of his Laurefindil and branded with the glory of the sun; it was he who had brought Ecthelion to life, left him to wander as a spectre through the Halls. 

Glorfindel, of his dreams and of millennia of beginnings, was his anchor to this life.

 

It was him, no, the idea of him, that had raised Ecthelion's grief and memory and ache to this all-consuming hope, monster of men, of his crushing guilt and his inhumane want. 

 

And now, in a moment, he had taken on the shadows, and become the sun. 

 

Ecthelion loved him, already, so much. The burden that he had carried so long, that it had come alive as its own being. The force that had made him run, fly, like the wind to who he had always imagined as his other half, the fire that had lent his fëa to hold on, come alive. 

 

And, Ecthelion had nowhere to put that love, if not in him. 

Nowhere to be than by his side, if he would not have him, then Ecthelion felt as though he were as good as dead. 

As good as he, who had been foolishly hopeful, and had raised his broken body from the abyss and had hoped so fiercely to live; as good as he who had died moments after, the sun burning his eyes. 

 

Glorfindel watched him, silently, not even a breath came from him; and he looked to be sculpted in stone, some young god who was searching for someone worth waiting for.  Ecthelion knew that he wanted it, that love; perhaps that was the price for being loved back. 

 

And Ecthelion would give it to him, carve his heart out on a platter for him to feast upon, with bared teeth and gleaming eyes. 

That love he would have given so freely, that with the force of the wind, and the bite of his want, would break Glorfindel's gilded being for Ecthelion. 

 

He could not have his love hurt, not Glorfindel, who looked as gentle as the waves and brighter the stars, and as the Sun, was already half on fire. 

 

Oh, he loved him so, already. And Ecthelion knew it would eat him alive. 

 

And so he stared. 

Willed Glorfindel to reach for him first, bite into his mouth and drink in love that had always been for him. 

Taste the blood of it, if he wanted to. 

 

It appeared for a moment, as a mirage, that Glorfindel had heard what he had pleaded for in his head, and had taken a step forward to meet him half-way. 

 

And then, the wind from the far-side of the sea, whistled through their ears, pulled harshly at Ecthelion's hair and made the dark strands spill into green-blue-grey eyes.

Glorfindel startled, just as Ecthelion reached to tuck the unruly behind his ear.  And for moments, the ghosting tips of Ecthelion's fingers brushed across the tip of Glorfindel's nose, and the dusk that glowed upon his skin. 

Almost willfully, and curiously, did Ecthelion let the pad of his thumb stroke an arch over his furrowing eyebrows, and thrilled as Glorfindel's lashes fluttered close. 

 

When they flew wide open again, his gaze, sharp as it had never before been, painted sunlit gold, the hue of Laurelin, if he should have ever remembered it, and just as blinding; it was Ecthelion who tore away his hands as if burnt. 

Glorfindel's expression shuttered, and so cold and weary he looked, that Ecthelion promised himself to never let him frown, and then he smiled again, alarmingly bright, barring a flash of white teeth and then the devious curl of his mouth. 

 

"So you did run all the way here?" He asked, tone innocent, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. 

 

"Yes," Ecthelion breathed out, eager to hear him speak again. 

 

He looked pleasant again, gentle as the moon. "I thought I saw you." 

 

Ecthelion couldn't help looking straight into his eyes, "Were you looking for me?" 

 

He was almost lost in them, one moment the hue of the sea, and the next, cradling the setting sun. 

 

"Do you wish I had?" He teased, and Ecthelion felt his cheeks grow hot; a lifetime ago, it had been him who teased, and Laurë who blushed. 

 

Before Ecthelion, speechless, could say anything back, he sobered instantly, polite as a prince.  "You don't need to answer that," Glorfindel intoned, sounding embarrassed. 

 

"Oh," Ecthelion said, and felt a smile creeping to his lips, and at the sight of it, Glorfindel too brightened. 

 

"But were you?" Ecthelion breathed out, infinitely curious, and his eyes wandered across Glorfindel's face, catching at his mouth that parted. 

 

He strained his ears to listen, but what sounded instead was the gusting wind, and with it, came the voices. 

 

"Glorfindel!" A twin chorus. And who else could it be but Elrond's twins? 

 

Ecthelion wished he had been better at hiding his disappointment, and ducked his head, as Elrond caught it with a tinkling laugh. 

Elladan and Elrohir, both leapt at Glorfindel, who had stepped away from Ecthelion to catch them with ease. 

 

"It appears that these two become as impatient as elflings when they catch sight of him." he said to Ecthelion, and swept as willingly, though much more elegantly, to squeeze Glorfindel into a hug. 

 

"Did you miss me?" Glorfindel demanded eagerly, feigning a threat, as he pulled them into a tight hold once again, and the twins nodded obediently. 

 

"You said you would come soon," Elladan accused, and Glorfindel shrugged apologetically as he laid his arms on their shoulders casually. 

 

"Your daeradar was willing, but the other two were bull-headed. And I couldn't face Legolas without Thranduil, could I?" He said, and then looked over their heads further away where Celebrían stood with her parents. 

 

"Or face you both without Erestor," he added thoughtfully, "But I promise I've brought him too, wherever he is." 

 

Elrohir scoffed, but a mischievous grin, reminiscent of his mother, tugged at his lips, "Erestor is nowhere to be found, though we saw him too. But it isn't your fault, of course, it seems like you were, er, occupied with someone yourself." 

 

He glanced slyly at Ecthelion, who coughed, and enjoying himself at the older elf's despair, added on: "Master Ecthelion, you'd better put yourself together before Daernaneth joins us." 

 

Elrond, apparently his only ally, cast a warning glance at his younger son, who promptly plastered a look of innocence upon his face. 

 

Glorfindel catching Ecthelion's apparent embarrassment joined in merrily. "You must have been eager to see me," he sighed happily, and Ecthelion thought that he did look genuinely overjoyed at it. 

His eyes dipped to Ecthelion's pale blue robes, suited for the comfort of his home, that had been ravaged by the harsh winds and sand that he had kicked up during his run.  Ecthelion hastily adjusted them, so they did not bare his chest anymore, and tried fruitlessly to smoothen the creases that would probably require some heavy ironing to be rid off. 

 

He floated over to Ecthelion, standing at a few feet of distance, safe and proper, though he almost raised his hands to touch the bird's nest of Ecthelion's smooth hair, before he contented himself with a point of his index finger. 

"Leave it loose," he remarked, "It's halfway there anyway." 

 

Ecthelion grinned, "Yours too, though I'm not sure if you bothered with braids in the first place." 

 

"So you do remember," he smiled faintly, and then smoothed his sun-spun hair, smooth and haloed by the dying rays of the sun, almost self-consciously. 

 

Elrond cleared his throat before he could say anything further than that, gesturing at where Celebrían was leading her parents, "We'd better go too, before it gets darker." 

 

He smiled kindly at Glorfindel, almost the same teasing way his sons had, but less so wicked, "You're as energetic as ever, Fin, but I'd rather you didn't tire yourself out before the festival." 

 

One of the twins piped up, "How about we go look for Erestor?" 

Ecthelion thought it was Elrohir, but Elrond shook his head. 

 

"I think I caught a glimpse of him," he murmured, "He must be with Elcallon." 

 

Ecthelion turned straight to look at him, suddenly alert, in all the excitement of having seen Glorfindel again, he had forgotten about Elcallon who had made up his mind to seek Erestor. 

 

"Alright," said Elrohir, for sure this time, though he did not try to hide the disappointment in his voice. 

 

His twin glanced uneasily at their father, "Are you sure we shouldn't follow to—" he cleared his throat, "To mediate?" 

 

Elrond sighed, but regarded his sons fondly, "They're grown men, I'm sure they can handle whatever it is between the two of them." 

 

Glorfindel too nodded, Ecthelion marveled at how swiftly his expressions shifted, and looking now, he remembered that he too had known them both closely, and that he had seen whatever it was that Elcallon avoided talking about when it had occurred. 

"That would be for the best," he agreed, "It's better they say what they must, without hesitation. This moment will pave the path for what shall come." 

 

The twins' shoulders slumped in synchrony, and rose too as one, when they realised it would be impolite. 

 

"Let's go on ahead, boys." Elrond told them, "Let these two catch up on their lifetimes." 

 

Never had Ecthelion felt more grateful to anyone else, and he passed Elrond a look of relief that the half-elven lord waved away. 

He led his sons by the shoulder, "Really, you're starting to act like children again. I hope you've matured enough to not pull pranks anymore? For the sake of my frail health, at least." 

They rolled their eyes at him, as always in eerie synchrony, and matched steps with him and walked forth. 

 

"Where are we going?" Glorfindel called out, and then looked to Ecthelion questioningly. 

 

"Elrond's home, so you can rest before the night's celebration." Ecthelion told him, and Glorfindel's mouth twisted to a strange expression before settling on a cheshire grin. 

 

"Ah," he sighed, combing fine boned fingers through his golden mane, "A celebration for our arrival." 

 

"Why?" Ecthelion asked, "Is that unexpected?" 

 

Glorfindel played with an errant strand, ribboning it around his finger and tugging absently, "Strange." He corrected, "What is there to celebrate?" 

 

Ecthelion shrugged, "You are the last of the elves to arrive at these shores. We have been waiting." 

 

Glorfindel studied him, quietly, and then turned his chin toward the seaside. "You know, there are many who have stayed back, in the Forests. I almost lost two of my companions to Arda, to the choice." 

 

"I didn't know that." Ecthelion said, not knowing what to say.

He wondered whether they would have wished to sail, even, or if they had even been asked. Did they know there was a world meant for healing? 

 

Did they have anything to heal from? 

Or, as Elcallon had once mused, did they have anything they had wanted to forget? 

 

His gaze had been half-lidded, catnapping by the shore on a warm winter's afternoon: I ran all the way here, but waited so long that now he might follow. 

And Ecthelion had asked back: Did you wish to wait, or did you just happen to?  

Elcallon's grin had been sharp, he smiled widest only when he never meant it; his gold eyes had been darker amber, rippling light in a forgotten stream, not blinding like Glorfindel's twin suns. 

If you ask me, I'll say I hadn't a choice but to wait. 

And then he had looked away, looking forlorn, at the sea that stretched on and on to eternity.  But if you will ask me , he had mulled thoughtfully, then I'll have no choice but to lie.

"You needn't feel guilty for not having known this." Glorfindel commented, and Ecthelion snapped to reality, feeling his stare weigh over him. "In any case, it isn't that they were stopped from sailing, just that they didn't want to."

 

"On this side, we never once thought of them," Ecthelion began, swallowing down a lump in his throat when Glorfindel's gaze followed him intently, "The elves, our kin, who stayed behind. And even now, we won't think to wait for them." 

 

"Did you know there was even a choice?" 

 

"There must have been," Ecthelion replied, "But does the Sea not always Call?" 

He looked over at Glorfindel to see what he would say about it. 

 

"I don't know, if the Sea calls, truly. I haven't ever felt it, only heard others speak of it." 

 

"Then," Ecthelion started, but paused midway. He had wanted to say: If the Sea would not have Called regardless, then why didn't you return sooner? 

He changed tracks swiftly, "Do you know anyone that the Sea has called?" 

 

Glorfindel's lips lifted up again, and Ecthelion thought that maybe he made an effort to smile all the time, even if he didn't have to; it seemed as if Glorfindel had gauged his question somehow. 

 

"I might." He said, "But never have I been told." 

 

Ecthelion took two steps at a time, feeling as he did sometimes with Elrond, as if he was young and staring into the mouth of creation itself, time. It was disconcerting, to feel so often as if he was being lost in the circle of his eternal life, when the stars above him twinkled away with the time. 

Glorfindel followed at the same slow pace, the world would wait for him, if he wanted it to. 

 

So, Ecthelion stopped and waited for him to catch up. 

 

"You know what I think?" Glorfindel spoke. Ecthelion waited for him again, to continue. 

 

"The Sea never calls." He declared in a whisper, Ecthelion leaned in to drink in the sound of his voice, ancient truths breathing life into empty words. 

 

"No?" Ecthelion asked, fascinated; not so much by what he said as by Glorfindel himself. 

 

"No." He echoed, his mouth a little circle, ring of secrets.

 

"It is just that we are so weary, that we long, by ourselves for the Sea. But yet, we love the world so we don't want to leave it behind. 

"If at all anyone asks, we make the Choice to lie." 

 

He spread out his arms, his robes, pale gossamer silk, woven with threads of gold caught the light and twinkled. 

But of course, his eyes were bejewelled, bewitching; the waves rushed at the shore, but the sea already, had found home in his blue-grey-green of his eyes. 

 

"Perhaps we are most unfortunate of souls, we have loved the world so much that we are weary of it." He held Ecthelion's gaze, "We have tied ourselves to the world, that we long to heal from it. And so, we curse the Sea, and then, we sail across it.

"It is not that they who stayed behind have not loved the world; rather that they have loved it unselfishly, not let that love hold them down, burden them." 

 

"But what if," Ecthelion spoke, before he could stop himself, "What if it is the world that wants you gone? That your roots dug so deep, they cut the Earth and so, Arda wanted you gone." 

"And so, you were sent to the Sea." 

 

Glorfindel let out a chortle, "Perhaps you're right." He said breathlessly. 

 

Ecthelion did not think his words had been worth such laughter; but the sound of it was a melody, and he could not help love him even more for it.

 

"You could write a song, you've always been so sharp with your words," Glorfindel said at last, his smile left of the trills that had gone with the wind. 

He paused, "You had, from what the stories say. Are you still?" 

 

For a moment he looked so unsure, and Ecthelion spoke soon to rid him of that uncertainty.  "I would like to think that I am." 

 

The dimple in his left corner of his mouth deepened, smile curving an upside-down arch, gentle and genuine.  "Then I am sure you must be." 

They walked a distance further, in silence, the last of the sunlight died and dissolved into the sea by the time they had sighted Elrond's house. 

Their host had gone inside already, and the twins waited by the door, deep in an animated conversation but for the moments they paused and engaged almost telepathically. 

 

Elcallon had once told Ecthelion not to pay it any mind, that there was no getting used, they were just like that ; he had offered him a rueful half-smile, it was something that twins just did. Elcallon  had seen enough twins, it seemed, and Ecthelion had seen only a pair that he barely remembered and now, chanced them upon here or there.  

Not so many were perfectly identical amongst the Eldar, and none as similar as Celebrían and Elrond's boys. 

 

Glorfindel let out a low whistle as they approached the house, a few more minutes of walking would lead them up to it from where they stood at the beach side where the climb was steep.

"This is almost a replica of the Last Homely House." He mused, and took eager steps forward, leapt over the stairway that had been carved from stone. 

 

Ecthelion stood his ground and watched, the elegance of his form was mesmerizing, swift as a hare. 

If ever they sparred, Ecthelion was sure he would stare so helplessly that it would be the same as losing on purpose; but wouldn't it be an honour to lose to such beauty? 

 

Glorfindel turned around, raked a glance over him, questioning and close to impatient. He reached out a hand, and threw Ecthelion a roguish smirk that made him catch his breath. 

"Tired?" He teased. 

 

He leaned down, threaded together their fingers of his own will, and tugged. Ecthelion gulped as their shoulders bumped against one another, and Glorfindel caught the movement at his throat, and smiled even sharper. 

He did not comment upon it, allowing Ecthelion the dignity to despair over his juvenile actions silently. 

Rather, he turned his attention back to the stone stairs, began to climb. 

 

But their hands still remained intertwined, swinging between them.  And the curve of Glorfindel's mouth lingered as gentle as the crescent moon. 

 

* ~ * ~ *

 

Glorfindel, only for a moment, wondered if he had been too forward in holding Ecthelion's hand and dragging him up. 

He had not opposed, not this time and neither when Glorfindel had almost touched his hair, but that might just have been politeness. 

 

Though Glorfindel would have liked to believe Ecthelion wasn't so easy to push over and have his way with. 

But then again, he had once been told in jest (though sometimes, Glorfindel wondered if there had been truth in it) by Thranduil once that he severely abused his power of seemingly effortless intimidation to make others comply with his wishes. 

 

Thranduil’s exact words, what Glorfindel had for some reason, memorised by heart had sounded to be laced clearly with a barely concealed, yet indiscernible emotion.  

They had snuck out into the back gardens, to escape a particularly lively celebration that had stretched on late into the night. 

The time too, Glorfindel remembered too clearly and somewhat unpleasantly, as the era of Greenwood’s prosperity when the kingdom and it’s people had eagerly been awaiting their Prince to choose a consort amongst one of the nobility. 

 

(As if he would have been permitted to make his choice all on his own. 

Oropher, for all his easy-going nature, would not be able to let matters rest easy for an occasion this significant. 

 

And yet, Glorfindel remembered feeling off-put by the anticipation and eagerness amongst those who had gathered, as well as by his own surging resentment for a reason he could not place.

In spite of all the jokes Elrond had made about Glorfindel’s envy at being left unbetroth, even to this day, he hadn’t been able to pinpoint the cause of it. Perhaps, he had seen marriage as something that would take his dearest friend away from him, to more domestic and respectable responsibilities.) 

 

Do you even realise , Thranduil had said, catching his gaze over his goblet of wine, how you make their breaths catch, how you make them forget their words? 

 

He had stayed silent, caught off-guard by how solemn Thranduil had looked, though Glorfindel remembered nothing of that conversation had begun nor of how it had ended. 

Only that, he had so badly wanted to ask if Thranduil had spoken from his own heart, if he had ever had his breath stolen by Glorfindel too; but for once, and gladly, he had managed to keep his mouth shut. 

But even now, he couldn't help but wonder. Of Thranduil's knowledge of what others thought of Glorfindel, even when he guarded his own musings like a dragon's hoard of treasures.

 

He watched Ecthelion. 

His head was raised as he searched in the approaching darkness for either of the twins by the outline of the door, they were still making their way across the majestic garden that stretched on between the cliff-face and the structure of the house. 

Still, Ecthelion’s hair was undone, now completely out of the fish-tail braid he must have tied it back into in the morning. Dark strands that were wisps of shadows in the evening twilight; parted so they wouldn’t fall into his eyes, but still, they spilled onto his temple, escaping from where he had tried to tuck them behind his ear. 

Their fingers were still laced together, palms pressed warm, as they had been since Glorfindel had taken Ecthelion’s hand in his and held it. 

Glorfindel let his eyes linger on the bone of his wrist, noting seashell charm he wore on a chain of silver metal, and let the pad of his thumb steal down the skin of Ecthelion’s. 

It was a touch so gentle that he did not think Ecthelion would feel it, but the hand in his grip clenched for a second and then relaxed, his grasp on Glorfindel’s fingers loosening. 

The reborn elf acknowledged it silently to himself, eyes thinly veiled with indifference under which swum hurt that would not let himself think about. 

 

Glorfindel remembered how Thranduil’s hand had begun to slip from his hold, and how, even though he had not looked back, he had felt him letting go already.  Not that he would begrudge his friend such a thing; Glorfindel was determined not to give the moment a meaning, determined to not let it hurt him. 

 

( Do you mean it , Thranduil had asked. Do you want me to let go?

 

No , he had said. And he had been painfully honest, not that he had even found the will to lie in himself. 

 

Not to Thranduil.) 

 

As he watched Ecthelion’s fingers laced with his own, and how it was Glorfindel whose grip was tighter; how he was holding on, the hurt was an unwanted and bitter taste in his mouth. 

He gulped it down, but still, felt it linger. 

The sun had set already, but the crickets had not begun to chirp as yet. The white noise of the crowd that had begun to gather farther away, and of the waves racing to and retreating from the shore; all in all, the silence still lingered. 

 

The voice had left him with words, and as always, emptiness had followed. 

Was this the cost, then? Of holding on, and being let go? 

Glorfindel paused mid-step, half doubting whether Ecthelion would stall too or whether he would walk forth without looking back.

He turned around immediately, a touch of concern painted on his sharp features, the tenderness with which he searched Glorfindel’s eyes. 

It made him smile. 

Wasn’t it an easy feat to achieve then, Glorfindel mused, if happiness came with only a look from Ecthelion? Maybe this was the healing they sought Valinor for, of simple joys and easy delight. 

 

Or perhaps, he had given up on his expectations so much so that just this much would make his world glow. But Glorfindel did not like thinking of it. 

 

“What is it?” Ecthelion broke through his thoughts, and Glorfindel remembered a day of biting wind from some faraway dream of Gondolin; with Idril roaming about the walls and Ecthelion whispering to him. 

That look in his eyes, though guarded this time around, was still the same. 

 

“You’re asking me?” Glorfindel huffed, amused, “Don’t tell me you’ll walk in with your head looking like a pigeon’s nest.” 

 

Ecthelion’s eyes widened a fraction and then he relaxed, sighing dramatically, “I’ve given up hope, this will take ages to untangle. All I can do is go home and run a comb through, and hope it won’t break.” 

 

“Please,” Glorfindel rolled his eyes, “This is nothing at all. I’ve gone through much worse, Erestor once insisted chopping it all off was the only solution.” 

 

He laid his hands on Ecthelion’s shoulders, turning him around to stand with his face to Glorfindel's, back to the house that was slowly illuminated in orange light. Ecthelion gave in without a struggle, the edges of his lips were curving softly, with fondness. 

 

Glorfindel directed him to untie the mostly-undone braid, and worked expert hands on smoothing the dark hair that fell in waves, touching a little above Ecthelion’s abdomen. He felt the weight of a stare over him, and looked up to see Ecthelion watching him with interest, and perhaps, disbelief. 

 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Glorfindel murmured. 

 

Ecthelion blinked in confusion, broken from his trance, “Oh,” he said, and then, mind running to catch up, “Of course not, I don’t mind.”   

 

It made Glorfindel beam, with relief, if nothing else. 

“Then I am glad.” he told Ecthelion, “I have been told I can be very,” he hummed distractedly, trying to find the right word.  “Eager?” Glorfindel tried, shrugging lightly as Ecthelion regarded him with utmost concentration, as if he was to spout a prophecy any second. 

He amused himself by thinking about a time when he had indeed declared a prophecy at the battlefield. Back then, what he had said had travelled more through the word of mouth and the compositions of bards, rather than being listened to so intently as Ecthelion was. 

 

“Just that, I have a tendency to cross boundaries, even with those who have just met me. Even when I don’t mean to,” Glorfindel offered him a tight-lipped smile, “So, make sure to tell me if I do. I won’t be hurt if you’re honest.” 

 

Ecthelion shook his head, and then winced as Glorfindel pulled too hard on accident as he wove the dark strands into a delicate braid that he had learnt from Elcallon Ages ago. 

 

“I’m sorry.” Glorfindel soothed instantly. “This was the last knot, I promise.” 

 

Ecthelion laughed at his apologetic tone, and Glorfindel raised his eyes to watch his eyes crinkle to half-moons, and the sound too, was as clear as a spring brook. 

Glorfindel watched him fondly, his fingers slipping from the side of Ecthelion’s head down to his temple, where they lingered. 

 

Ecthelion’s gaze was piercing when he met Glorfindel’s again, and he raised a hesitant hand to hold over the back of Glorfindel’s.  “You aren’t a stranger to me,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t mind you .” 

 

“Alright,” Glorfindel breathed out, the straight line of his mouth wavered at the corners, and then, edged up sharply in a grin. 

Ecthelion took in a shuddering breath and let it out softly, and then, looking a little taken-aback reflected the glow on Glorfindel’s face in a smile of his own. 

 

He bowed his head ever-so-slightly, their noses almost brushing, and this time around, Glorfindel felt his heart skip a beat. 

Ecthelion searched his eyes, and though Glorfindel’s gut said that there was nothing more to expect, he could not help the swoop in his stomach; and neither the juvenile thrill of excitement that ran as a shiver down his spine. 

 

"Were you looking for me?" He said, solemnly. 

 

Glorfindel traced his fingers down the outline of Ecthelion’s face, humming in affirmation as he drew in a sharp breath, pupils dilated so wide that Glorfindel could see his own face reflected in the depths of luminescent darkness. 

 

“You were a sight to behold, like the wind.” he murmured, at last hooking them under Ecthelion’s chin gently. Glorfindel drew his gaze from the determined set of his jaw, up to his eyes again, and met them with a smile. “I watched you run all the way to the shore.” 

 

Ecthelion shook his head, and his hand raced after Glorfindel’s, intertwined their fingers together and pressed it in the hollow between their chests.

“Not the shore,” he said. The depth of his words and his voice, and the tenderness of it, alone were breath-taking. 

The smile he granted was fleeting, but yet, it had put the rising moon to shame. "To you," he said, looking like a vision from dreams, eyes silver, sharp as blades, but like crystals, pools of starlight.

 

"I ran to you." 

 

Notes:

The haiku featured in the beginning is the creation of my absolutely amazing friend, @amethyst-sage-29 on Tumblr. And she's got so many other absolutely beautiful ones (which she's letting me feature in this work!).

Please please let me know what you thought of well,,,,, all of this. However it was, I worked on this with a sudden bout of motivation that came from reading The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller (and TMI: Achilles might have inspired my characterization of Glorfindel? At least I was inspired by his character, though I'm not sure if it shows ahahah)

Comments are always always appreciated, and as always, thank you so much for reading! Happy belated start-of-spring!

Chapter 6: Six.

Summary:

The night is alive, the earth rejoicing, and the magnolias are in full bloom.
Fate has wound to a pause this evening.
Only love lies awake.

Or,
Glorfindel tries to flirt.
Ecthelion tries to process.
The night is still young.

Notes:

Hello again! It's been a long time but here's a longer chapter (8k words..... I don't know how I got them out of my system either). I feel like every chapter is going to get longer and longer,,,,,, I hope the time between updates is eaten up through the time taken to read them!
Anyhow, I can't say for sure but I might have more time to write too :")))) The COVID situation in my country has gotten terrible, and my end exams (that I think I might have been rating to long for) were postponed to some unspecified date,,, So here I am!

As always, I'm grateful to anyone and everyone who takes the time to read. I hope you'll enjoy the chapter (and I would love to know your thoughts, comments light up my life!)

6. 

And someone's face, whom you 

love, will be as a star

both intimate and ultimate, 

and you will be both heart-shaken

and respectful. 

—Mary Oliver from To Begin With, The Sweet Grass (Devotions)

 

As the sun disappeared on the Other Side of the horizon, the last of its rays caught in the luster of Glorfindel’s famed mane of burning gold, Ecthelion knew already that the shadow of his hope, despite all his efforts, had been cast already. 

The lanterns along the stone path leading to the house were lit one after another, with each beat of his traitorous and overjoyed heart; in the feeble light they offered, it was stark, the creeping ink of dark trailing down the contours of Glorfindel’s face, his gleaming eyes, the scupt of his jaw and further down, seeping into the hold of his fingers. 

If there was a burden that weighed him down, Glorfindel did not show it; he beamed as a beacon that lent the darkness his light, still, he did not shed even a fraction of his own luminescence. His shoulders rose, the upward curve of his mouth, alluring and amused; he took a step toward Ecthelion, and stifling a gasp, the latter too, leaned in. 

He had imagined the scene in his mind countless times, a daydream that the train of his thoughts ran along too often, but never like this. 

Never had it been real.

He had always known there were Ages, years, days to go, and now, here they were, their chests breaths away, Glorfindel’s palms raised as if to cup his jaw, and Ecthelion reaching to grasp at his wrists, tug them closer. 

Glorfindel’s eyes fell shut, his head tilted up, and Ecthelion too, leaned down, finally. Through lifetimes, they had been tied together. 

And finally, they had come this far. From life to death to another life that had unraveled before them; one that would only begin, again and again.  

 

The pooling adrenaline in his stomach was what propelled him forward, Glorfindel summoned all the courage he hadn't realised he would need, and steepled his fingers over Ecthelion's shoulders. The latter did not seem startled, rather, he reached for Glorfindel too, the heels of his palms grazing over his waist; and Glorfindel told himself it was now or never. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, half hoping Ecthelion would make the first move, but surging up until their noses met, Glorfindel precariously close to losing his balance if not for the strong arms steadying him. 

"If you aren't ready," he murmured, searching the silver of Ecthelion's eyes, "Tell me no." 

Ecthelion gaped a moment, stupefied at what Glorfindel did not understand, and then, he cracked a smile that was like a stab to Glorfindel's stomach, an eruption of butterflies. "Ready for what?" he teased.

Glorfindel huffed, crossing his arms across his chest. "I cannot believe you," he rolled his eyes, "You must have been with countless people in these many Ages, don't tell me you don't possibly know." 

Ecthelion blinked in surprise, and he did, truly, seem to be caught off-guard with Glorfindel's comment. "I don't know what you mean." 

Now, it was Glorfindel's turn to gape. "Really?"

Ecthelion nodded, but his eyes were starting to curl at the corners again, hinting at a smirk. He knew, that was for sure, but at the same time Glorfindel did not know how to react to Ecthelion's implication of not having pursued other partners in the past millennia. 

He chose to avoid it instead, a classic tactic that was best-suited simply because it was never expected from him. "Nothing," Glorfindel assured, taking a bold step toward him, he not only made the furrow in Ecthelion's brow disappear but also made the taller elf abruptly clamp his mouth shut. 

Glorfindel peered up at him expectantly, raising an elegant brow. "You said you ran to me." He spoke, voice low. "I'm here now," he laid a palm against Ecthelion's cheek, "And so are you." 

 

In the faint glow of the lamps that cast their light from the house, Ecthelion's eyes held drops of moonshine. He had seen the Light, and that made pale grey gleam like ripples of silver. And he was staring, enraptured. Glorfindel had always loved provoking such reactions from those around him, and Ecthelion's eyes on him set something in his heart on fire. "What now?" He enunciated each word carefully, and sent a prayer to any power so Ecthelion would finally take the hint. 

He raised his head, let Ecthelion's gaze rake over his face, felt the grip of his hand tighten at Glorfindel's waist.

"Oh." Ecthelion said. He seemed to say that for everything now, maybe there was never use for more words in Aman. 

Glorfindel considered briefly whether Erestor would taunt him for having spoken with such high regard of a place where the people apparently found no use of anything beyond monosyllables to convey their thoughts.  And then, as Eru finally granted one of the many wishes Glorfindel knew he was entitled to after the long years he had served the Valar, Ecthelion leaned forward with practiced ease and Glorfindel let his eyes fall shut, trusting him to take the lead. 

 

Alas, it seemed as if the falling stars he had wished upon, all these Ages, had just been specks of dust in his own eyes. The world would turn on its axis but it would never let Glorfindel have even a moment to himself, to Ecthelion, with love. 

He bit his tongue, reminding himself that he had intended to put his best foot forward. After all, it was their first meeting, and lifetimes had passed since Ecthelion had loved him freely and fully; it was understandable that he would keep his guard up, and Glorfindel had dragged himself up till this moment by keeping his impatience in check. 

Rather expectedly, and infuriatingly, again, it was them again.

This was not the time to showcase his impressive vocabulary of profanities, Glorfindel berated himself. It did not help that they were all his thoughts consisted of, words from an assortment accumulated over the span of two lifetimes, from various sources: his haziest memories from the Years of the Trees, Silvan curses Thranduil had taught him in secret, each and every one of the words High King Ereinion Gil-Galad had ever said that had made Elrond wince, and of course, the best of the best, from the times Erestor and Elcallon would attempt to best one another at the tongues they spoke. 

Ecthelion looked away, keen eyes scanning in the semi-darkness for the origin of the voices. Glorfindel resisted the urge to mutter his grievances, he did not wish to file complaints in the names of the twins he had quarter-raised right on the first day of his arrival. 

 

"Finally! Are you both here? We've been waiting all this while!" That had to be Elrohir, who had inherited all his mother’s charm and none of his father’s tendencies to meticulously think each and every action through. 

Ecthelion’s gaze alighted upon their figures, standing in the passageway by the open door, the crack of golden light illuminated their identical features; the smugness on Elrohir’s face contrasting sharply from Elladan’s sheepish grin 

The younger twin, dressed in rich maroon, cupped a hand around his mouth and called out, "The festival is tonight, and you're one of the prime sights everyone will have their eyes on, Balrog Slayer." 

Silence from Elladan, which was not so expected. But it was evident that he had elbowed his twin sharply in the gut, Elrohir let out a groan. He clenched his jaw, a movement that had Ecthelion shake his head in amusement, nudging his nose against Glorfindel’s brow.  

"What is it?" Elrohir demanded. He was definitely scowling, Glorfindel knew he was. 

Elladan sighed, one that sounded incredibly similar to his father's, "We're interrupting." He dragged out each syllable, as if he was speaking to a child, though Glorfindel did not think Elladan would hiss at one.

"Interrupting wha—Oh." Elrohir cleared his throat, "Oh, right." 

Perhaps that was it; the mood had unfortunately encountered an unexpected wound, but it was not fatal, Glorfindel trusted himself to salvage it.  Just as he was about to catch Ecthelion’s attention, intent on making the taller turn his back to the twins and perhaps serve as a shield so nobody would look, Elrohir landed the killing blow. 

"Fin!" Elrohir hollered, making Glorfindel flinch in embarrassment, "You’ve been waiting for Ages, I know, but we have places to be, things to do. Whatever you’re thinking of—” 

His voice broke off, muffled by his brother’s hand over his mouth, but some miraculous force, perhaps it was Morgoth exacting revenge for the murder of his Balrogs, Elrohir fought it off. “That day may come as soon as you wish, but it is not this day!” 

"Elrohir!" Elladan admonished, but the brat was smirking too, for all the part he played of the responsible one, they were the same. 

All sound paused abruptly when a muffled voice, sounding like Celebrían’s called out for them; the vacuum created by the silence filled with the sound of the elder twin fumbling to drag the younger inside the house again.

Ecthelion raised the arm looped around his waist to fold Glorfindel into his side; the palm of his hand rubbed circles between his shoulder-blades in an unnecessary but appreciated effort at calming him down as the blonde made a sound of pure frustration. Glorfindel had never been more glad that they had stopped somewhere in the middle of the gigantic garden space, far enough from the house that it's light would not be sufficient to reveal their intertwined forms.

He let out an exasperated sigh, revealing his disappointment without even a thought. "Ah, forget it." He scowled, "Let's head back inside." 

So much for impressing Ecthelion with his impeccable grace and enviable composure.

Ecthelion eyed him, delighting in his annoyance and Glorfindel was grateful Thranduil had already left, there was no way his friend would have given away a chance to nag him about his petulance. And Ecthelion would have joined in gleefully, Thranduil had a knack for bringing people to his side.

"There, there," he soothed, not even trying to hide his laughter, "We have an eternity to do whatever it is you were looking forward to." 

 

"Hm," Glorfindel started making his way towards the house, "An eternity of interruptions then." He paused, reaching for Ecthelion’s hand that was given to him without a moment’s pause; smiling, he interlaced their fingers, hauling the latter with him. 

Ecthelion followed willingly, his laughter echoing in perfect rhythm to the gushing tides. "It doesn't matter," he said, catching Glorfindel's eye, "We'll still be together, won’t we?” 

When he put it like that Glorfindel couldn't possibly not melt, the promise of forever, the laid-back implication of the two of them being together , it seemed as though there still was hope for Ages worth of teenage dream wish fulfilment. Perhaps he had always been weak for lines like these, so matter how sickeningly-sweet they would sound. 

Or perhaps it was just Ecthelion that he was weak for. 

Glorfindel huffed again, perhaps there was something to say of his composure if it kept him from mooning over Ecthelion every second. "I'll hold you to it." 

Ecthelion pressed close for a hushed whisper, “You’d better.” 

Glorfindel could have kissed him then and there, he was but a breath away, already his lashes swept against Ecthelion’s cheek; the tilt of his head and he would touch his lips to his mouth, warm and fleeting. He drew in a breath, shaking the persisting desire off, a bird that had alighted upon his shoulder, that had momentarily quieted down but wouldn’t be shooed away so easily.

He took in the sight of Ecthelion leisurely, if he wanted then the world would pause, even the storms would pipe down if he thought them too loud. 

For light, he wished hopelessly for the sun, but settled for the moonlight, and the glazed warmth reflected by the crystalline clarity of window-panes; no matter what cast it’s glow upon him, any sight of Ecthelion would be a vision to him. 

He had wanted Ecthelion in dreams, had wanted the rolling hills and the gurgling fountains, and what the world had laid at his feet in this moment was not so different. The waves ran along the shore, and the house loomed ahead, a fortress of stone, and Ecthelion, he was there . 

He looked straight ahead, his mouth was parted, swallowing the breeze, his neck swan-like and jaw carved of marble; but Glorfindel knew he had been prying for a glimpse, and he let his lips tilt upwards, pressed it into Ecthelion’s shoulder. 

Glorfindel smiled fully and freely half against the open weave of his cotton shirt, and against the robe of pale blue that he had settled on wrapping loosely about his magnificent form. 

 

He has run this far , the Voice said. 

No, it had sounded like himself, this time; the lilt of his own voice echoed in the chambers of his mind. 

 

He has run this far, to me, Glorfindel thought again, filled with a joy that rose like the waves and leapt in flight to the winds.   

Then he can run even longer, the Voice again, let him chase. 

 

Glorfindel frowned, not realising how Ecthelion had felt the twist of his mouth against his skin and how he had quit the pretense and looked straight at him. 

 

But already, he is here, I am here.

Here Glorfindel was, storm-chaser, light-bearer, a forest pleading with an ancient root. 

You have further to go, cryptic and curious, but he did not want more questions, not answers either, if they would be spoken this way. There is more to be. 

He was the river. The sea had stretched on until land had begun, as it would, again and again. 

 

Glorfindel tore his head from the perch he had claimed, the crown of his head made a sound upon impact with Ecthelion’s chin, making them both wince. 

“Are you alright?” Ecthelion demanded, the same time as Glorfindel reached forward apologetically. 

 

“Did I hurt you?” 

 

Ecthelion smiled warmly and shaking his head, he said, “No. Maybe we’d better head inside, or we’ll lose our sight in this darkness.” 

 

“Hurry,” Glorfindel said, “Or the twins are never letting me hear the end of this.” 

* ~ * ~ * 

The moment Glorfindel stepped into the house, he was surrounded by people. No, Ecthelion was not getting possessive. For Eru’s sake, it had not even been a day.   

Predictably, it started with Elladan and Elrohir, who positioned themselves on both sides of Glorfindel, all but hauling him over to their mother. Ecthelion followed, ducking his head down lest either of them caught on and jested at the cost of his bruised honour. 

His self-appointed guards led a chortling Glorfindel to the vestibule by the kitchen, where he was swept into Celebrían’s arms, hugging her tight and almost lifting her up into his arms. 

“Your son disrespected me,” Glorfindel complained to her as they pulled away, a charge that said son vehemently denied. 

“Ada had asked me where they were, he told me we were getting late for the festival tonight.” Elrohir argued, and nudged his twin to come to his support, though Elladan only rolled his eyes in response. 

Celebrían shook her head, sighing, “We’d better find Erestor quickly, or you’ll throw a tantrum for something next, as you did that one time by the fish pond.” 

 

The younger twin pointed a finger at his brother, “That was him, not me.” 

 

Elladan stuck his tongue out, “That wasn’t even half as embarrassing as the things you’ve done, what about when you liked that girl and went about buying her gifts?” 

 

Elrohir clamped his palms over his ears, “Don’t say it.” 

 

“She thought you were me! And you sulked for three days straight and refused to talk to me!” 

 

Celebrían massaged her temples, “Here we go.” She fixed Glorfindel with a steely glare, her pearly eyes gleaming, “They’re for you to mind again. You and Erestor can take turns, Lindir refuses to have anything to do with these gremlins.” 

 

“Leave them with Legolas,” Glorfindel chided, “He’s always been so well-behaved, it’ll rub off on them.” 

 

Elrond walked in from the corridor leading to the dining room, looking mildly perturbed, “This feels like walking into something from an Age ago. Should I be worried?”  

 

“Maybe?” Celebrían shrugged, “But with everyone back, they're no longer only our problem anymore.” 

 

Elladan raised his hands defensively, “I hope you all know we’re standing right here, all while you’ve been slandering us.” 

Elrond snorted, and promptly turned his attention towards Ecthelion. “Ah, I’m glad you didn’t let Glorfindel bully you into gallivanting with him outdoors!” he rejoiced, clapping Ecthelion on the shoulder.

“Oh I wish.” Elrohir lamented. This time, supported by Elladan, to his delight.  

 

Glorfindel flashed him an exaggerated scowl, and Ecthelion, as he watched their stage from the shadows, laughed into his palm at how childish, youthful he would turn when around the twins. He did not seem so other-worldly when he was like this, though he was not the same as then, certainly Laure had never been such a tease, nor half as lively as he was now. 

Ecthelion watched him light up the chamber, appearing as the missing piece that had made them all come alive, as clockwork; he had never been so enraptured by a still such as this one, but then again, last he had had a family of this sort had been before the sun was born. 

He mused absently that perhaps Glorfindel had been sent back to the world with the light of two souls, he was at once the burning flame, and the welcoming hearth. 

 

“There, there,” Celebrían chastised, regarding Glorfindel too solemnly, though her eyes gleamed with mirth. “You’ve taken long enough to get here, and I’m sure you’ll soon tire yourself out, so—” 

Glorfindel waved away her words, “Quite the contrary! And I’m sure I told Elrond too, I’ve been cooped up in that ship for so long. There’s not much to do at sea but pace around aimlessly, I’d very much like to tire myself out, as impossible as it seems.” 

Elrond granted him a smile, “Right, then you’d better be lively enough to make up for the rest of your companions at the festival tonight. I’m afraid they haven’t been as fortunate to have your energy.” 

“Anyway,” he said, glancing at each of them in turn, as if daring them to interrupt, “Glorfindel, your belongings have arrived and been left in your chambers—I assumed you’d be staying with us for the night at least, if not longer—I'll have someone escort you. You’re free to freshen up, bathe if you wish, and then we’ll keep something light ready for you to eat before we head out at eight. Is that alright?” 

 

“Ah, Lord Elrond, it’s moments like these that make me realise how much I’ve missed you,” he sighed contentedly. The corner of his mouth quirked up grin that lit up his eyes, and the half-elven lord shrugged in reply.

Celebrían’s gaze settled upon Ecthelion, “We don’t have anything of yours here, I’m afraid,” she started apologetically. 

 

“It’s no matter!” Glorfindel interrupted enthusiastically, “We’re not so different in build, I’ll lend Ecthelion a robe of his choice.” He held Ecthelion’s gaze for a moment earnestly, as if asking for consent, that the dark haired elf offered with a firm nod. 

 

“Hm, yours might be short on Master Ecthelion,” Elladan remarked. 

 

“And a little tight at the shoulders,” Elrohir joined in. 

 

“Celebrían!” Glorfindel called out, “Your sons are bullying me again.” 

 

“Now boys,” Elrond began, sighing wearily, instantly, the twins dropped their smirks and regarded their parents with perfect cherubic innocence. Their father rolled his eyes at them, ushering them into the passageway that opened into the main hall, Celebrían followed, flashing a quick glance at Glorfindel and Ecthelion.  

Their family from Rivendell was almost complete, Ecthelion contemplated, only Erestor and Lindir, and of course Arwen were missing. He waited for Glorfindel to cross over into the corridor, so he too would follow after him, leaning his weight slightly against the wall. 

As he lay his foot over the threshold, Ecthelion watched Glorfindel as he stilled. The hall was brightly lit, puddles of gold poured into the shadow of the vestibule, and as Glorfindel turned his head to catch Ecthelion’s eye, it seemed as though the sun had risen and lent him it’s light. 

“Ecthelion?” 

His voice came harmonic, as though a melody half-finished, waiting for completion. The honey-gold of his skin, set ablaze, made his eyes look gilded, before a wave crashed upon the turf far far away, and once again, glowed blue and green all at once. 

He reached out with his arm, slender fingers that parted like sun rays, pliant and waiting for Ecthelion’s hand to hold in his gentle grasp.

Ecthelion granted that wish thoughtlessly, it had become second nature, to give Glorfindel what he wanted, already, so soon. It did not alarm him, however, and Ecthelion thought knew why; Laure, Glorfindel had appeared again as a memory ages old, reborn every moment, coloured in sometimes strange, sometimes similar hues.  

 

“Come.” he spoke, the silence quivered as it held his voice, as if it was a precious thing, to be cherished. 

As they walked forth into light, and Ecthelion stared helplessly at the sun by his side. 

 

* ~ * ~ * 

 

"You're really not tired?" Ecthelion said disbelievingly, sounding doubtful and impressed at once. 

 

Glorfindel had been scouring through one among numerous cases of his belongings for the past half an hour, ever since he had emerged steaming from the quick bath he had taken. The door of the bathing chamber lay ajar, from where the scent of bergamot and oakmoss wafted in, mingling with the biting salinity of the sea breeze that the open windows brought in. Ecthelion had taken the time to undo the tangles in his hair and regarded Glorfindel’s reflection curiously as he tried to tame the unruly strands that cascaded down his shoulders, dark ebony that held onto the waves of the braids he had let loose. 

"Yes, really, Thel," Glorfindel replied distractedly, he was peering closely at a set of robes of dark purple, and did not bother to turn around. 

Ecthelion was caught off guard by the endearment that had rolled off his tongue with such ease, even after these many years; but before he could process it and produce a reaction, Glorfindel had spun around with a crazed look in his eyes. 

“Here, catch!” he exclaimed, and instinctively, Ecthelion caught the mass of cloth that fell against his chest, tumbling down into the cradle of his arms. 

As Ecthelion inspected the luxurious garment, Glorfindel came to stand by him, laying a casual elbow over his shoulder. “The violet would bring out the grey of your eyes,” he mused, “The cloth is a blend of silk, not too heavy but it drapes well, and as a bonus it’s breathable too.” 

Ecthelion hummed, rubbing at the flowing fabric between his index finger and thumb. It was of a superior weave, the neckline was wide and embossed with a shimmering thread of rose gold, patterned in intricate florals, and Glorfindel handed over a tunic of pale grey with a collar detail that would match perfectly. 

“You have a good eye for such things.” he noted, smiling as Glorfindel beamed at the praise. 

“I get that a lot. I’d say, if not for the most fashion-forward, I’m a close second. But then again,” he reached forward to caress the cloth fondly, “Most of my robes in the Sindarian style have been influenced by Thranduil’s tastes, and he is quite the icon.” 

“I’ve heard!” Ecthelion told him, “There are many who speak in obvious awe of his crowns and circlets, it is said he looks put together even for war.” 

“They aren’t wrong.” Glorfindel agreed. Then, his gaze shifted again, from the cloth to Ecthelion expectantly. “Well, what do you think? Is it to your taste?” 

“It’s a change, definitely,” Ecthelion admitted, “I’m told I wear colours that are too sober, I’ve always stuck to blues and greys.” 

Glorfindel hummed, his eyes twinkling merrily, “Very well then, a change it shall be! It’s a pity if you don’t give the more vibrant hues a chance, they’d suit you very well.” 

For the first time in perhaps some millenia, Ecthelion felt utterly unprepared to take a compliment, lest he would return it with too much gusto and make it awkward for both of them. Instead, he deflected the topic of conversation from himself to Glorfindel. “And what shall you wear? I take it that white, like now, isn’t your usual palette then?”

His tactic seemed to have worked, and Glorfindel drew away to another box that he opened carefully.

“I don’t stick to anything in particular,” he replied, sifting through the clothes again. He craned his neck to catch Ecthelion’s eye and flashed him a wink, “I’ll wear anything that looks good on me. Of course that opens up a world of choices.” 

“Of course.” Ecthelion laughed along. 

He seemed to have made the choice quite quickly for himself, a fact that was endearing in how Glorfindel seemed to have put quite a bit of effort to find Ecthelion a perfect fit. It was a garment in a similar fabric as what had been given to him, except that it looked to be heavier, and infinitely less comfortable. It was in a darker shade of teal with a silvery sheen to it, with an embroidered collar that grazed at the throat. The robe was meant to be draped in a manner that cinched at the waist. Most striking to Ecthelion was the absence of sleeves, the lack that Glorfindel substituted with long fingerless gloves that rose till a little above his elbows.  

 

He tucked it hastily under his arm and faced Ecthelion again. “Well, what about a circlet? Any jewelry? I’ll let you take your pick.” 

The dark haired elf shook his head, “That’s alright, I feel like I’m drawing eyes already with only this much.” 

“As you should.” Glorfindel commented, and before Ecthelion could reply, he had already crossed over to a jewellery box that he produced from nowhere, picking out earrings for the numerous piercings in his ears. 

They had headed downstairs together, Glorfindel having tossed his hair around effortlessly until it had achieved the ideal combination of sun-spun smoothness and lusciously thick, devoid of braids as he had preferred it. 

 

Already, there was a conversation in motion. Elrohir, who had been pouring out a pitcher of cranberryade into glasses, offered them a two-fingered salute in greeting, responded to in earnest by Glorfindel who promptly ruffled his hair, making the younger elf groan. 

Elrond paused mid-sentence to pick up his glass and smile at them both before he continued to speak to Celebrían. "Legolas sent a message letting us know they'll meet us there directly.” 

From his peripheral vision, Ecthelion noticed the frown that crossed Glorfindel’s face, it came and went like a passing cloud before anyone else could see. 

Celebrían hummed in reply, "Well, Naneth insisted on going over to meet the other side of the family, all my uncles are apparently very eager to interrogate poor Ada." 

"Aw Nana,” Elladan commented, coming over to drape himself over his mother, “What a pity all your plans are foiled now." He laughed as she swatted at him half-heartedly, before her hand came to rest lightly against his head, stroking his hair gently.  

"Erestor too," Elrohir piped up, "Do you reckon he was washed away at the beach?" 

Elladan snorted, while Celebrían regarded her child blankly. Elrond smiled fondly at him. “I know you are worried, pen neth. But he’s alright, I know it.” 

Glorfindel reached over to wrap an arm around his shoulders and squeezed briefly, selflessly subjecting his biceps to Elrohir’s impressed prodding. “He’s probably with Elcallon, I’m sure they have lots to catch up on.” 

“Oh, but I am expecting Erestor home,” Celebrían intoned, sounding worried, ”I suppose Elcallon would bring him over anyway. Elcallon wasn’t at rehearsal yesterday, but he’s a solo act anyway, there’s no reason for him to be at the carnival grounds so soon, I’m sure nobody is out to practice.” 

She shook her head, as if trying to push her worries aside, and cast a bright grin at them all, “Well, we’d better eat up. Especially you, Glorfindel, and Ecthelion too, I imagine you must be quite hungry having run all the way to the harbour.” 

 

The twins whistled teasingly in unison as she said it, and Glorfindel too tried and failed to hide the smugness on his face. Ecthelion cradled his forehead in his hand, embarrassed, “I was in a hurry?” he mumbled. 

Elrond looked charmed, “I think it was rather romantic….” 

Glorfindel reached for a slice of pastry, raising his eyes to look straight at Ecthelion from over the rim of his glass, “Was it?” 

 

Before Ecthelion was inclined to regret his decision to race to the shore in plain view of anyone and everyone, Elrohir, surprisingly, came to his rescue. “Oh, Glorfindel!” he declared, “You haven’t looked around the house, have you?” He glanced at his twin, urging him to add on. 

“Right,” Elladan picked up seamlessly, “Ada toiled over it for months apparently, he’d brought the original designs for the Last Homely House. And, Nana’s been in charge of the interior design too.” 

Elrohir pointed straight at Ecthelion, “And you’ve been coming over so often with Elcallon, haven’t you, Master Ecthelion? How about you showed him around?” 

Ecthelion was confused, Elrond and Celebrían shared a glance, seemingly used to their sons and their schemes. Glorfindel, however, leapt to take the offer and beamed at the twins proudly. 

“What a great idea!” he said with too much enthusiasm, and strode over to nudge his shoulder against Ecthelion’s, “Come on, I’m dying for that tour already.”   

 

* ~ * ~ *

 

It was up for debate who was showing whom around, for Glorfindel raced about the house, from the halls to up the stairs, peering over the balustrades and inspecting the collections in the library carefully. Ecthelion followed faithfully, at times with a leisurely pace, and other moments, hot on his heels. He was tiring already, breathing harshly as they went up the stairs and down again, before Glorfindel had caught sight of a solitary painting on one of the walls of a secluded corridor and had insisted that they take a look. 

“Remind me never to give you what you want.” Ecthelion muttered as they headed now to the way they had come into the house, out into the patio so Glorfindel could admire the distant cityscape illuminated in the mellow light of the lanterns.

“Let’s see about that.” Glorfindel laughed. His cheeks were flushed after the exertion, eyes gleaming as he scanned the surroundings, and in the pale glow of the porchlights, his hair caught the light and reflected it, Ecthelion clenched his hands so he could resist the urge to lay his fingers over them. 

They stood now toward the far side of the expansive garden, nearing the stones that formed a natural girdle about the compounds. Below, the waves lapped tenderly at the shore, grains of sand silver in the moonlight; the wind carried with it the fragrance of still blossoming laburnums, and the din of a faraway crowd that was the accompaniment to a solitary cricket that sang with frequent pauses. 

Once again, Ecthelion was lost in his thoughts, a habit that he indulged himself far too often this time around. He thought about how far the day had come, from when he had been awakened from a fitful sleep with persistent doubts, and then the afternoon when he had tried to distract himself with mindless chores, drifting in and out of reality. 

 

Evening heralded by Elcallon’s arrival, the words they had spoken. That moment will come and it will go, but in your head, it’s going to stay. 

He could not bear to think of how different things would have been had he not rushed out, propelled by the hope that had carried him thus far, latching on to Glorfindel as he had thrown himself at him. 

In this moment, that had come by chance, through temptations granted and because at the last minute, his resolve had crumbled in the face of his enormous want. Hope that had eaten at him, and from the core he had believed to be rotten, he had thrown himself out to the present, and emerged now, in the moment that would be remembered. 

Here he stood, and Glorfindel stood by him, watching the world that had given him away to the Other Side, that had become the world that had awaited him. He locked in the inkling of a thought that had begun to rattle in the cage of his mind, pushing aside the force that was building up in that hungry core of his being that ached to hold and be held again. 

He exhaled through his teeth, pressing his eyelids close for a moment to regain his control before he returned to the conscious world, where Laure stood. He was near enough for errant strands of gold brushed lightly against Ecthelion’s neck if the wind blew wild enough. But thankfully, far enough too that Ecthelion could squash the relentless longing to reach for Glorfindel, to touch the bridge of flame-gold skin that lay exposed between cloth, the shell of his ear where the metal of his ring would be cold, or to feel the warmth of his cheeks against his lips. 

Get a hold of yourself , Ecthelion chastised himself, you’re no animal!  

“Ecthelion! Look!” His arm shot out, narrowly missing Ecthelion’s nose by a breath, far too distracted was he in staring at Glorfindel that he hadn’t noticed what the latter had been regarding so intently all this while. 

By the steps cut out of the rocks that Ecthelion and Glorfindel had taken up to the house were two figures. They were roughly of the same height, but the one who lingered behind the other was more willowy, dressed in more flowy robes as Glorfindel had been wearing, but in darker shades. 

The other, who had begun scaling the stairway already, Ecthelion realised with a start was Elcallon. Having seen him ever so often with it slung over his back, Ecthelion could make out the  outline of his sabre with ease. He had cast off the cape he had been wearing earlier in the evening, the pale light rippled over the folds of the satin shirt he wore underneath. 

Glorfindel was already striding forward, having draped nimble fingers around his wrist, he pulled him along, and by the time Ecthelion belatedly registered the grip, he had already stumbled forward. 

 

“Erestor?” he called out. Briefly, he turned to catch Ecthelion’s eye and murmured a soft apology, letting go of his hand. 

 

Elcallon craned his neck to look down at who Ecthelion presumed was Erestor, he shouted out something down at him that was sound to the both of them who were higher up, but the dark haired elf shook his head. Elcallon sighed, he leapt over the last two steps of the stone stairway and reached the summit.

Glorfindel moved as if to rush toward him, Ecthelion stood still but he caught the blonde’s elbow before he was gone already, shaking his head slightly. He frowned in response, but nevertheless paused, stepping back into Ecthelion’s chest on accident; Ecthelion felt him still, anticipating a reaction before he eased once more, shoulders relaxed. 

Erestor was halfway up already and Elcallon reached forward, gripping his hand to pull him up. Ecthelion gulped, as Elcallon held him by the shoulders, searching Erestor’s empty eyes with blazing gold; he could see the rage, yes, but the ferocity of it hid a quieter agony, burning embers doused to sorrow. 

 

“I’m alright.” Erestor spoke in a sigh. He laid upon Elcallon’s hands his own, squeezing his ringed fingers tightly before he pulled them off himself. As if burnt, Elcallon retreated, eyes wandering until they met Glorfindel’s, who was still watching with concern. Ecthelion dropped his hold and the reborn elf surged forward, worry evident. 

 

“Are you hurt?” he asked Erestor, the intensity in his gaze demanding honesty. 

Erestor shook his head again, letting a smile flicker across his face, though it did not touch his eyes. 

 

“Of course he’ll say no, Glorfindel, what do you expect?” Elcallon scoffed, Ecthelion could tell that he was trying to hide the hurt with armour of brittle words. 

 

“Elcallon, please.” Erestor murmured. Once again, Ecthelion realised how tired he looked, he looked pale with faded purple bags under his eyes, empty as a broken jar. 

Over these many days, Ecthelion had come to know Elcallon as someone with strange ways of offering comfort, he would prod and tease; but in all this while, he had never seen Elcallon look so worn out either, seemingly incapable of soothing when he himself was close to shattering. 

Though his acquaintance with Erestor had lasted a few seconds at most, Ecthelion could tell that he was at his limit already. He opened his mouth to intervene, or at the least have Glorfindel do so, but already Elcallon was speaking. 

 

“Tell Lord Elrond he’s ill," he instructed Glorfindel, "You should have seen how faint he got at the harbour, and he’s limped all the way here.”

Elcallon shot Erestor a sharp look, making the latter sigh in barely restrained irritation. “And if you’re planning on being stubborn,” the challenge in the jut of his jaw was unmistakable, “I’ll tell Celebrían myself.” 

Glorfindel looked uncomfortable in the brewing tension between them, this would have to be the longest that Ecthelion had seen him not smiling. For a moment it seemed as if he had dimmed, the blinding brilliance of him had vanished. Ecthelion lost his breath, at how his eyes were the pale eerie blue of the Grinding Ice, and his hair pale as the sun hidden amidst rainclouds. He was alive again, Laure of Lonely Gondolin, he was alive as a person, not an entity. 

And then, he turned his head around, holding Ecthelion’s gaze as the green surged into the empty blue of his eyes, again, he was more, too vast for Ecthelion’s helpless arms to hold. An enigma, who was the sun, within him the fathomless sea. 

 

“Let’s go in,” he said to them all, a finality in the tone of his voice that even headstrong Elcallon looked ready to yield. “Erestor will be well again with some food and rest, perhaps you are weary from the journey.”   

He raised a hand to cup Ecthelion’s face, but did not let the warmth of him melt against his skin. Instead, he let it fall to his side again, though the tips of his fingers grazed the edges of his robe, shoulder, arm, elbow and wrist. Before he walked over to Erestor’s side, he searched Ecthelion’s eyes beseechingly, and then he had passed already, wrapping an affectionate arm around the shorter elf. 

Elcallon’s eyes hung upon Erestor’s form as he walked into the warmth of the house. In the silence that lingered between them, Ecthelion could hear Glorfindel’s announcement of Erestor’s arrival, Elladan and Elrohir, twin blurs that rushed to their side, Celebrían and Elrond who greeted their friend eagerly, delighted. 

 

“Well,” said Elcallon, “I’d better get back now. All of this,” he gestured vaguely, “Has gone on for too long.” He was already on his way, side-stepping Ecthelion and heading straight for the rocks. 

“Wait!” Ecthelion called out. Elcallon raised an eyebrow in question. As he paused, there was barely hidden annoyance that tightened around his mouth and though the older elf didn’t notice, his hands were closed in fists. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” Ecthelion made sure to keep his voice even, not curious or demanding that an already frustrated Elcallon wouldn’t see his concern as invasive. 

He let out a rough exhale, and then, flashed a weak grin, “Is it that obvious something is wrong?” 

Ecthelion mirrored his smile awkwardly. “You don’t need to tell me now. Or ever.” he said, “But if you want to, then I’m here to lend an ear.” 

 

Elcallon shook his head, “You don’t need to tiptoe around it, it’s alright. I’m just,” he sighed, “Tired. Nothing went as I wanted it to, and I’m—” he let out a broken laugh, “I deserved it, to be honest. I don’t know what I was even thinking, that he’d run into my arms or something as ridiculously cliché.”  

Ecthelion coughed into his fist, this wasn’t the time to think of how Glorfindel had done exactly that. He didn’t want to rub such a thing in, of course not; and that was only partly because Elcallon had a weapon he had a mastery over, mostly because Ecthelion did not like to hurt his friends. 

(Or be impaled and stain Glorfindel’s robes with his blood. That wouldn’t be very romantic.) 

 

At Ecthelion’s awkwardness, Elcallon snapped his fingers, as if realising something all of a sudden. "Oh,” he said, “I can imagine how this sounds. Please don’t think I’m mocking you, I’m just saying, of course. Everyone with eyes saw your dramatic reunion at the beach.” 

With that, his smile widened mischievously, “It’s only fair you’ll let me take some credit. If not for my speech back in the evening, I’m sure you’d have stayed home.” 

“I’ll grant you that.” Ecthelion conceded. 

 

A moment after, he realised how expertly Elcallon had deflected the focus of their conversation back to Ecthelion again. It was obvious he was trying hard to keep mum about whatever had passed between him and Erestor. But then again, Ecthelion was unable to stop motherhenning him, and he hoped sincerely that it wouldn’t make the younger elf lash out at him in annoyance. Though that, Ecthelion supposed, would be well-deserved. 

“But, what about you? What happened on your side of the story?” he demanded anxiously. 

Elcallon waved away Ecthelion’s concern casually, “Don’t worry about me. Rather, tell me how your romance is progressing. Didn’t I tell you he was already head-over-heels for you?” He snorted, “No matter how many people romanced him back in Arda, it was only a year or two before Glorfindel himself was bound to call it quits.” 

Ecthelion blinked. “Right.” he managed, not knowing what to say. 

It was not as though Ecthelion himself had never sought out other companions; especially in the early days of Duilin and Egalmoth’s romance, he and Rog had gone on some embarrassingly awkward double dates with some of the latter’s acquaintances’ acquaintances. He had not denied himself the chance to meet new people, let encounters progress to whirlwind romances before they died down like embers on a fire going cold. 

At least, he had tried, on Rog's insistence, to explore casual relationships. That had been a long time ago, however, sometime in middle years of the Ages he had been living in Aman. But they had never been the same. It was undeniable, as Rog had complained to him one day, nursing a bottle of wine, Ecthelion had never been sincere in such pursuits. Catching feelings for fleeting lovers was one thing, and love another. 

Ecthelion had never tried to love them for ever, not for themselves even. 

Want was a raging storm, and he, a desperate wind that threw itself into empty houses, gone again when rain came.  

 

Time and again, consciously and unconsciously, Ecthelion had already promised his future, whatever there would be of its endlessness, to Laurefindil who was bound to return to Aman, return to him. Perhaps in his mind there had already been a choice made, to wait for however long it would take, for Glorfindel to return and love him again, or to return and cast him aside. 

Life, to him, had been passing at its own leisure, and it would begin only after Laure returned. The future was what lay beyond him, and unknowingly, Ecthelion had already taken it upon himself to live only for Glorfindel, to rebuild a world for himself after whatever choice Laure would make. 

How was he to tell himself that it had all been futile? The burden of his hope was cast as a shadow upon the idea of Glorfindel, He-Who-Would-Return-Someday, and now, the burden of his whole entire life. 

In another lifetime, Ecthelion had decided that his youth was his, and his death too, for Laurefindil. Rebirth and re-embodiment, here he was again, betting his life to only a possibility. But how lucky was he, that his devotion had taken fruit, that Glorfindel returned to his waiting arms and aching heart? 

He shook away the fingers of envy that threatened to cast shadows over his tremendous joy. The past was far beyond these silver shores, and they were here, and that was all that mattered. 

 

Elcallon laughed out loud, it was the most honest he had been the entire evening. “Ah jealousy, I suppose even the great Lord of the Fountain is inconvenienced by our mortal afflictions.” 

Ecthelion snapped out of his musings at that moment, feeling his cheeks grow hot. “Of course not!” he exclaimed, voice raw and high. 

 

It made Elcallon cackle, eyes like dancing flames. At least this would cheer him up, even at the cost of Ecthelion’s pride; he was not given enough credit for his good nature. Ecthelion cleared his throat, “It isn’t what you think.” he said primly. 

“Sure, whatever you say,” Elcallon hummed, and then, with a conspiratorial wink, leaned close, “If you want to know more about Glorfindel’s past affairs, I’m at your service. Lindir had me keep up with the news, back in Imladris, he insisted I was better at snooping than him.” 

 

Ecthelion was prepared to argue, he opened his mouth to speak in his own defense. But right away, he saw through Elcallon’s pretense and narrowed his eyes. “I know what you’re trying to do. You won’t fool me so easily.” 

His friend sighed, once more he was that worried man who had been glancing every half of a second at Erestor, who acted as though he didn’t even exist. “I’m frustrated?” Elcallon offered tiredly, and continued to name his emotions, “The last thing I want to do right now is attend that blasted festival, and see him again.” 

 

“Did he say he didn’t want you back?” Ecthelion murmured, his hand came to rest comfortingly around Elcallon’s slumped shoulders. 

 

Elcallon, though miserable, somehow cracked a smile as looked up at Ecthelion. “If only he had,” he sighed wistfully, “But that is what bothers me, that he said nothing at all. For a moment, everything was perfect, really! I thought we’d work it out together, but then he clamped up all of a sudden, refusing to say a word.” 

He shook his head, as if chiding himself, “And then, many things happened at once. Erestor was seconds away from falling apart, at least that’s what it looked like to me. I couldn’t leave him alone in that state, so I brought him with me, all the way here.”  

Ecthelion was silent, though he squeezed the shorter elf gently, letting him droop against his shoulder for a moment. 

 

“Anyway,” Elcallon breathed out, “I got my closure. That should be enough for me.” 

“Is it?” 

“Well, it will be.” He laughed nervously, “It had better be.”  

“If you want it to be, then it will.” Ecthelion agreed. He flashed Elcallon an encouraging smile, “Aman is for healing, didn’t you say? There are so many years beyond us, and so many people too.” 

Elcallon grinned, “Hm, the people can’t resist me, it seems.” 

In a flash, he was solemn again, though the twinkle in his eyes still lingered. “It was a sign I needed, and I must take it as one. Perhaps we aren’t meant for each other, after all.” He looked heartsick as he said the words, almost; Ecthelion didn’t think Elcallon himself believed what he was saying. Want was not simply a weight over the shoulder, it was a tree of gnarled roots that had been watered by the blood of a heavy heart. 

Even in a drought, the sun still rose, whether one wanted it or not. And such was hope too, a curse born as a heartfelt wish, still lingering. 

 

“Perhaps you are not,” Ecthelion mused, but he tightened his grip upon Elcallon, wishing he could give his friend the happiness he had won for himself. “Or perhaps it is too early for one to say. Give yourself time, my friend, Aman is abundant.” 

Elcallon drew away from him, finally having exhausted his charm and his words, all that he was left with was silence. Ecthelion was nobody to deny him the solace of quiet, so he let go. “You’re a good friend, Ecthelion.” Elcallon muttered, “You deserve all the joy you'll find.” 

Ecthelion jostled him lightly, “What’s with this sudden change of mood? You’d better not start telling me how grateful you are to have met me.” 

 

“Ha, like I’d say that. You’ve repaid one debt, Fountain, remember, I was the one who got you to run to him.” 

 

“Of course, like you’d ever let me forget.” He rolled his eyes once, and again as Elcallon mimicked him with all the maturity of a six year old. At least, Ecthelion concluded, it had brought his spirits up again. That was all that mattered, maybe that was what Laure had wanted him to do. Though for some reason, Ecthelion did not think Glorfindel had been as warm when he had met Elcallon again…

As Elcallon bade him goodbye, clapping him on the shoulder and making him swear that Ecthelion would not forget him now that Glorfindel was back, the Lord of the Fountain dusted the paranoia from his thoughts. It was, undoubtedly, too early to pass judgements upon their lives and their relations back in Arda; and Ecthelion had not had the pleasure of any of their acquaintances, neither Elcallon or Glorfindel of the Rebirth, and certainly not Erestor whom he had met only minutes ago. 

 

He enjoyed his own company for a few moments, reveling in the serenity of silence: the breeze dancing through the trees, a rustling in the bushes that he could swear was a stray rabbit, and the sight of magnolia blooms, heralds of spring, pale and gleaming in the moonlight. 

Elcallon scaled the rock face with swift leaps, executing a final jump that made Ecthelion snort in amusement, at how the younger elf was showing off his skills, aware he was being watched. 

 

The day had come a long way, and after dark had fallen, the world seemed to have brightened in the joys of homecoming. Ecthelion only hoped that at the stroke of midnight, the day would be put to sleep happy. Whatever grand plans the Valar had for Glorfindel, he hoped it would be set to motion before tomorrow; two lifetimes had passed, but still fate was chasing after Laure. 

In all of Aman, perhaps it was only Glorfindel who was yet to fulfill his purpose, whatever that was to be. 

 

The tides mighty and the night darkened, the breeze carried in his arms, a bride that was the rain; the clouds were heavy, but the sand was gleaming, as the world joined her lovers to rejoice those who had come home.

Silver eyes rose to graze upon the silver moon, the air breathed in his murmured words. all the world was made of hopes; with one wish granted, a fool’s heart ached for another, for more. 

 

 

Notes:

Gods, I realised some days ago that I've had all these characters travel on foot to wherever they go, at distances I never specify. But er, here's an ode to elven stamina, and long legs! (Also, I can barely write people walking so I'm sure I'd ruin people riding horses,,,,)
We've gone on without Thranduil for a long time, and that might be because I've gotten too much into writing Ecthelion. But I promise he'll be back soon!

Anyway, I value your patience and I value your reading this story that's gone on for too long RIP.
(Also, I tried to be funny in this chapter and I don't know how that ended up being written? I promise I have an acceptable sense of humor in real life.)

Chapter 7: Seven.

Summary:

The time is turning, yet the tide is still.
Does the world change it's people? Or do the people change their world?

or,
Thranduil is finding his place.
Ecthelion catches sight of something he wishes he hadn't.
Glorfindel is just giving off his signature main character energy.

Notes:

[disappears for 6 months] hi! :)

Sorry about that,,,, I kind of went through a lot of (not-so-bad) changes all at once and I kinda had a burnout. It took a little more than two months to put this chapter into writing because I was procrastinating on writing this scene, and that made me procrastinate on writing anything else that followed so. Uh, here we are.

In any case, if anyone who used to read my work is back after this unplanned hiatus of mine, I owe you all the gratitude my heart can offer. Please excuse any deterioration in the quality of my writing, I hope I'll be able to improve soon enough.

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! Thank you so much for reading, any comments or kudos mean the world to me!

 

7. 

Put your hands in the sand, my friend.
It’s best we bury ourselves.
What’s heavy.               What’s heavy?
Becomes light.

― Noor Hindi, Ode to Friendship 

 

The day was darkening, and as the sun began to tuck itself away into the heavy arms of the clouded horizon, Thranduil too, felt himself trying to blink away his drowsiness. 

He had felt this countless times, having to grace the merry-making that ran on from evening to the early light of dawn in Greenwood, having to perform this duty as King with weary reluctance. Thranduil chuckled to himself, wondering how on earth he had been branded with the persona of a ruler who delighted in the wines of celebration, when he would resign himself to envying a still-young and sleeping Legolas and down glasses of wine, thus building his remarkable tolerance. That feat of his, at least, had its fame rightly deserved. 

Overly familiar with the unease that came with his tiredness after a too-long day, Thranduil revelled in this faintness, the leaden weight in his legs and shoulders as he tried rising to his feet, the lingering heaviness over his eyelids aching for sleep, as well as, the blanket of haze that hung over his mind. It seemed to Thranduil that in the sea of change on this shore, only that ages-old fatigue was familiar, akin to an old companion. It comforted him, standing as he was, donning heavy robes, the like of which he had worn last in Greenwood, and that crown, of spring blossoms and silver-wood, reminiscent of that time he had still felt deserving of the title. 

Indulging himself, Thranduil threw the cape over himself like a blanket, curling up with his knees drawn to his chest, a lonely King in the yards of fabric that felt like another Sea, dragging him into darkening depths. He let his breaths deepen, eyes fluttering shut as he gave in to the soreness about his neck and shoulders; the crushing weight of his heart in the cavity of his chest, the passing memories in the blank canvas of his eyelids, gold and red and silver sand.

Thranduil wished he could go home. 

But if this was home. When would it feel like it? 

 

A knock at the door startled Thranduil out of his thoughts. He propped up an elbow, leaning his head against the heel of his palm turned toward the source of the sound. 

"Come in." He called out, already expecting the almost forgotten yet familiar face that peeked through the crack of light. 

“Did I wake you?” Oropher asked, brows furrowing in concentration as he propped the door open with his hip, precariously balancing a tea-set in his arms. Thranduil watched his father manoeuvre his way into the room, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dimness from the drawn blinds, not replying until he had settled the tray as well as the dainty looking tea-pot and cups upon the bedside table. 

“I wasn’t asleep yet,” he said, watching after his father with childlike awe. Perhaps it was still disbelief, to see the man who had died in his arms, whose blood Glorfindel had sat and washed off his hands, another ghost he had regretfully laid to rest, alive again. Flesh and blood and breaths, all that Thranduil saw within himself as he thought of the past, gleaming jewel-bright eyes, the frown that would always melt into a trickster’s smile, and the same snow-white hair that framed his sharp-edged face; it was the realisation that he had never thought to see his father again. 

And here he was, exactly the same as he used to be.

What was Thranduil to do with it? With the past that blinded him every moment of this present; and the future that had begun, already, it would strike him off-guard. What was he to do?

He stared at his father as discreetly as he could, still disbelieving, though it was more than possible that the Undying Lands granted eternal life to those who had passed on to Mandos. Perhaps in his brooding, Thranduil had not been as subtle as he would have wished, for Oropher called him by name in an amused tone of voice, startling him from his thoughts. 

"A penny for your thoughts?" He smiled as he handed Thranduil a mug of tea, settling by the edge of the bed. "I suppose the last time I asked you this in good humour, you were a brooding youth who refused to confide in his poor old Ada." 

Thranduil snorted, they both knew well enough that Oropher had been neither poor nor old, though it was true that his father would complain endlessly of how Celebrían never kept a secret from Celeborn. The envy for what his cousin shared with his uncle, that had come only many years later after Adar was lost and with him all that was left of Thranduil's youth. 

"There are many matters," Thranduil admitted, "I could make you a list." 

"Well, I should hope your list will last long enough to fill conversations for the next eternity, or you'll end up as weary as I am of this monotony." 

Thranduil hid a smile into the rim of his mug, "Is what you call a monotony that 'healing' everyone in Arda is after?" 

He had meant his words only in jest, however, his father considered them thoughtfully. "In a manner of speaking," he said, "I suppose you're right, Arda was a land of many evils, heroes and villains, and those of us caught in the crossfire. Perhaps it is some comfort, a kind of healing, in living every day as you have for the last century. At one point, there isn't much to do or discover; well, nothing to fear, no one to fight, no city doomed to fall." 

Thranduil laughed, it was quieter, more a sigh, there wasn't much in him that felt very alive. "That's a relief, I've had enough of cities, foes and duties for a lifetime. I would like to be the one who hasn’t anything to do with the world, for once." 

He looked up to see Oropher watching over him with a mournful smile, guilt painted vividly in the twinkling green of his eyes and the curving line of his mouth. With a steady hand that in his hesitation seemed to shake, his father stroked Thranduil's head lightly; as if he thought that he either wouldn't be allowed to or as if he didn't deserve to. 

"Ion nin, I have put you through so much," even as he smiled brighter, his eyes glittered with unshed tears, "I am the one to blame, my pride and my recklessness, for the youth that was stolen from you." 

Thranduil shook his head resolutely, reaching to take Oropher's hand on his own. "It was the War, Adar, you know it as well as I do. What I lost was not my youth, that had already been spent." 

He continued before his father could reply, "The darkness had already begun to creep into Greenwood, we knew there was something coming and we knew we would have to go to war against it. I had my youth, Adar, perhaps longer than many others, because you let me have it. In all these years, I have never thought of you in resentment; regret, of course. I wish we could have reversed all that happened on the battlefield, all the lives we lost in an instant. I have remembered how you raised me on your own, how you loved me, and I strived to be for Legolas what you were to me." 

Oropher stared at him in silence, Thranduil searching his face for something in reply until unexpectedly, his father let out a sniffle. Thranduil startled, taken aback at the tears that flowed so freely, he didn’t recall having seen his father ever cry so openly. As the elder rested his forehead lightly against Thranduil’s shoulder, laid carelessly over his face to hide his streaming tears. 

Thranduil couldn’t help but let out a peal of laughter, louder as his father tried joining in, a watery chuckle that caught in his throat as a hiccough. 

“Don’t look at me,” Oropher complained, “Allow me the dignity to shed my tears in peace.” 

Thranduil watched over him with a fond smile, “And what is it that has you shedding tears, Adar?” 

“Just that,” he suppressed a sniffle, “You’ve grown so much, the last I saw you, you were still a child.” 

“Ah, so you left that child as your heir?” 

Oropher feigned a glower at him, “I’ll admit that said child was very dignified for his age, trustworthy too. Perhaps lacking the excellent humour his father possessed.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both cradling their cups, sipping the tea that Oropher had brewed. The room was cozy in the way that no room in the palace had been; when he had been younger too, there had been rumours that the Woodland King, his father, had come from humble backgrounds. Never had he claimed the noble lineage that had tied Lord Celeborn to the royal family of Doriath, in spite of how it would have been foolproof to pass off as distant relatives or the like. 

Contemplating the atmosphere of the room, as well as the house Legolas and Oropher had escorted Thranduil to (which Legolas clarified was his grandfather's, not his own, though he was a frequent visitor), it had to be said that the house resembled more the inside of a well-decorated Mallorn talan than the vast expanse of the palace he had grown up in. Perhaps his father had always felt more at home in the more rustic side of the aesthetic, though Oropher had never cared to clarify to his son whether the rumours had their roots in truth; all that mattered, in his words, was that they remained true to their people. 

Unbeknownst to himself, Thranduil realised that he had begun to feel at home in the earthy tones of the room, his father’s reassuring presence and the abstract sense of security that had eased his nerves. 

“I’m glad to be home.” he declared, revelling in the warmth that spread through him, as he inhaled the scent of the tea, holding the mug against his chest. 

“I’m glad if you feel so,” Oropher smiled, “Healing is just another word that’s thrown around when they really mean ‘getting used to’. It’ll be strange at times, but you’ll find your place.” 

Finding his place. Was that not what Thranduil had been fretting over long back, the evening when Glorfindel had provoked Erestor into their shared outburst, to stay or to leave? Back then all that seemed to have mattered was Glorfindel, and throughout the journey too, whether he would stay by Thranduil’s side, whether he would drift on his own accord. All along there had been two worlds for him to return to, two homes that awaited him; what good would Thranduil be to him, barely a shell of a man? 

Perhaps the hours apart from his friend after days and days and days by his side were moments of illumination he had been seeking all this while. The desperation from having faded in the shadow of the forest had clouded his judgement, he had forgotten that the world was wide and his heart bursting, it held more, was more than Glorfindel.  

Perhaps this was the first step across that bridge, to realise that the hand he had been reaching for, whether fire-burnt or flame-bright, had always been his own.  

“All this while, I had been seeing this world in relation to one other person,” he confessed, “But the journey is one I must pursue on my own, isn’t it? It is my life, on This Side of the Sea, I must strive to find my own place, it won’t be by another’s side, neither does it have to be.” 

Oropher studied him curiously, eyes gleaming. Though Thranduil had not, of course, expected him to burst into proud tears once again, he had thought he would receive at least some exclamation of encouragement. The sudden ease he had felt after concluding his declaration seemed to evaporate with the look of contemplation his father was regarding him with. 

“That is well-said and true, ion nin,” he began, a smile playing on his lips that made sure of the fact that he knew something Thranduil couldn’t even begin to guess. “You’ll carve out a home for yourself, and you’ll do it as one among us. Rather, you will remain among those who love you, and as you seek that which will heal you, perhaps you might find another by your side, on a journey of their own.” 

He hummed thoughtfully as if searching for something to say that would soothe the effect of his cryptic words, “See it as a journey of its own, we are all still healing, aren’t we? Valinor isn’t what heals, it is what you find, who you might find, that’ll be the bridge taking you across to what you seek.”   

“That I understand,” Thranduil said with an air of certainty that he did not at all feel. Regardless of the calm tone of his voice, every word his father had said seemed to have taken him a step further away from the metaphorical bridge he was to cross; what would now await was a hopeless maze. “I understand that in seeking to heal I must strive to make myself a part of this world, which would mean the people. I have already found my family, I am awaited by friends, of course, I don’t intend to run along a hermit’s path of solitude.” 

“Right.” Oropher nodded, his smile taking on a sheepish air. “But I don’t mean my words in only a metaphorical sense, you see.” 

Thranduil took a gulp of his tea, raising his eyes to meet his father’s, he commented with a hint of sarcasm, “Surely there isn’t some divinely ordained other half I am to seek.” 

Once again, he was met with stony silence, though at this point it had taken a turn toward the hysterical, Oropher’s eyes widened as he tried his best to manage an appropriate validation of Thranduil’s jesting words without unintentionally giving him a fright. “Ha! Lucky guess?” 

Thranduil blinked, the disbelief evident in his sharp features. Hesitantly, he glanced behind his shoulder, as if expecting Legolas or someone else to come barging in order to declare that he had been made a fool of. “That makes no sense.” 

“When I said that Valinor requires getting used to—” Oropher began, wincing as a disbelieving Thranduil interrupted him. 

“Does everyone find one?” he demanded, “And how soon? How are you so sure this isn’t an elaborate farce? What abou—?” 

“Thranduil, really, I can answer your questions one at a time. There’s no hurry, it is not as though you’ll have found your soulmate at the crack of dawn.” 

“Do you have one?” 

At this, Oropher’s indulgent tone came to an abrupt halt, he avoided Thranduil’s eyes with an uneasy slump to his shoulders. 

“Well?” 

“If you must know—” 

“Yes, I must.” Thranduil interjected, quietening down as his father stared at him helplessly. 

“I haven’t found them, yet,” he confessed, but the bashful lilt of his voice suggested that he spoke with a person in mind. He glanced discreetly at a frowning Thranduil, adding swiftly before his son rebuked him once more, “I have an inkling as to who it might be, but as of now, nothing is for sure.” 

“How will you know for sure?” 

Oropher let out a shaky laugh, “There’s no way to know how to know, if that makes any sense.”   

“That makes no sense,” Thranduil muttered. 

“Perhaps that was the intention?” Oropher smiled to himself, “In spite of the centuries I’ve lived here, Aman still hides many mysteries from me. It is true that countless people have found their other halves, as you would call it, but no one has been able to say for sure how they knew. They just that they did.” 

"You cannot expect me to believe a word of this—" he began, running a frustrated hand through his hair, and then shook his head, as if he wasn't willing to waste his brain cells in a senseless argument. 

Instead, he eyed his father, intent levelling several hundred other questions, though he looked conflicted at showing his curiosity as if his interest would translate to belief if he seemed too interested. “What if there is someone who wants nobody else? What if they want to spend the rest of their lives on their own?”

“Then perhaps they aren’t destined for it. But I would say that there are more of those still searching than those who have chosen to remain by themselves, the thought of it feels out of this world.” 

“I wouldn’t blame them,” Thranduil scoffed, “As fascinating as it sounds, there must be many seeking the thrill of love in this monotony; it’s often desperation that inspires unwavering belief in the impossible.” 

Oropher swatted at him half-heartedly, “Don’t be such a sceptic, Thranduil. I too am one among those desperate fools you speak of so harshly.”  

His remark was followed by another pleasant lull in the conversation, as Thranduil contemplated this unexpected aspect of his new reality and Oropher mentally skimmed through all that he was yet to bring up for discussion. 

"Ah right!" He declared when about five minutes had passed. A gentle breeze blew in from a sneaky crevice in the window, carrying with it a faint buzz of the faraway crowd, gathering for the night's celebrations. 

"Listen," Oropher caught Thranduil's eyes, resting a reassuring hand over his shoulder, "This is up to you, in the end. Neither Legolas nor I are in any particular rush to go," he chuckled to himself, "Not that your beloved son will let you out of his sight if he can help it, and neither will I!" 

"What's this about?" Thranduil muttered, jade eyes narrowing with suspicion. 

Oropher patted him reassuringly, "Rest assured, ion nin, this isn't anything to do with the Valar or their plans." 

Thranduil shrugged, though his eyebrows were raised expectantly. Oropher continued in a pleasant tone, "You see, we have a house toward the opposite end of the coast. Legolas and I, together with Gimli when he's feeling up to it, try visiting it about once in six months at the least. It's been quite a bit longer since the last time we were there, so we thought of going again when we heard the news of your arrival. This time, you could accompany us too, if you would like." 

He continued, glancing at Thranduil, "Legolas suggested that it would give you a break, since there would be quite a few people trying to get a glimpse of you, avoiding the crowds is the best bet when you're adapting to an entirely new place. In all probability, we'd make plans to leave by the end of this week. Though earlier or later wouldn't be a bother, it isn't any trouble to shift the date around, it's only the packing we'll be considering." 

Finally, he got to the point, smiling sheepishly as Oropher realised how he had taken the long-winding route to ask a simple question. "The decision is left to you, we can stay as long as you'd prefer, or leave as soon as you feel like it. Just let me know sometime, yeah?" 

Thranduil nodded, sharing the smile. "Though I'm not too keen on meeting too many past acquaintances all at once, I think I'd rather stay here for a little longer."

"Whatever you say." He smiled fondly. "Just say the word if you feel like leaving." 

He hummed thoughtfully as if considering the offer a little longer until he decided on an answer. There he almost allowed Oropher a moment of respite; almost. All of a sudden,  Thranduil raised his head, pinning Oropher down with narrowed eyes. 

"Who's the one you're after?" 

Oropher choked, keeping his tea to the side as he turned to glare at an unimpressed Thranduil. "The one I'm after?" He echoed, offended, "This isn't desperate or one-sided!" 

"Well?" He crossed his arms over his chest, "Who is it then?"

"All in good time." Oropher managed, albeit cryptically.  

"Is it someone I know?" 

"Maybe? Maybe not?" 

"I'm taking that as a yes." Thranduil huffed in annoyance, "Just tell me who it is!" 

"No!" the elder protested, and in a smaller voice, added, "I don't want to jinx it." 

"What's the worst I could do? You don't possibly think I'd go tell them, do you?" 

"No," Oropher grumbled weakly, "But, nothing is for sure yet. It would be strange for me to face him if someone knew." 

"Ah," Thranduil commented gleefully, "So it's a he and someone you've known quite long." 

"Stop it." Oropher groaned. 

"Just tell me!" Thranduil pestered once again. 

"Give up, Thranduil!"

 

*~*~*

There was something about Thranduil that the world was still blind to, Ecthelion thought to himself, a few paces further away.

He stood silently, watching the two of them, Glorfindel and Thranduil, soaking in a shower of his own guilt, having become a voyeur to what he should have averted his eyes from. Whatever it was about the Elven King, Ecthelion would carry the burden of that knowledge as he lingered uneasily by Glorfindel's side, the vision of them burned against his eyelids.

It was in the way Thranduil never met Glorfindel’s eyes, but never lost sight of him. His mouth was an emotionless line, though the frosted jade of his gaze melted to reluctant fondness at every little familiar gesture, careless teasing that came from Glorfindel. The latter, in all his gleaming golden glory, impossibly bright as the evening melted to darkness, strayed to Thranduil’s side; an undercurrent of desperation to his enthusiasm, as if he was expecting to be cast aside. At once, he was everywhere, eyes dancing and hair flaming, the purple silk of his sleeves vivid against the silvery strands of Thranduil’s unbraided hair; but he was within the reach of his arms, the skylights reflected in the depths of his eyes, as he watched him with painfully sincere longing. 

He heard Glorfindel call out his name, loud and spirited; he was so impossibly bright, it seemed as if his smiling face would crack open any moment, letting blinding rays of light burst out of his eyes, mouth, everything. 

Abruptly, Ecthelion was drawn away from the absurdity of his thoughts, as Thranduil’s sharp gaze was set upon him; an empty expanse like the Ice, the melting pot of indulgent fondness frozen over in silent judgement. He shuddered, only remembering to feel ashamed of that momentary intimidation much later, but managing a curt nod at Glorfindel (though all the while he felt Thranduil watching). 

"Coming," he murmured, more to himself than out loud, as he was supposed to. 

“Ah,” a familiarly smooth voice remarked in mock fascination, “Is that the effect they’re having on you?” 

In what Ecthelion would have to spend justifying to his brat of a friend as a completely out-of-character reaction, the Lord of the Fountain jumped in fright, a hand over his beating heart. “I hate you,” he growled, only to have Elcallon let out a terribly grating cackle, reaching to wrap his arm securely around Ecthelion’s neck in a chokehold. 

“Spare my feelings, will you? I don’t want two people confessing their hatred for me on the same evening. Even I,” he paused dramatically, “Deserve better than that.” 

Ecthelion wilted, glancing worriedly as his friend who had followed the former’s line of sight and was busy not-so-subtly watching Thranduil and Glorfindel in their bubble. “Do you want to talk—” he started, only to be cut-off by Elcallon’s overly-enthusiastic ‘no’. Knowing his eccentric friend. Ecthelion knew better than to prod the subject, lest he annoyed Elcallon into leaving him alone again (in which case, he would be left to his own devices, envious eyes on Glorfindel who was utterly absorbed in Thranduil’s company). 

Elcallon hummed as he observed them keenly, eyes like a tiger’s that watched its prey, “It's almost like everything melts into the shadows once they’ve set their eyes upon each other, don't you think?” 

“Yes,” he breathed out, it felt like he was confessing it to himself. "They make the world their own. They have everything, as long as they have each other." 

“You think so?” Elcallon asked gently. Ecthelion could feel his amber gaze regarding him intently, almost cautiously. His tone, which had almost been conspiratorial, as if he was dishing out the latest gossip, had mellowed down to a quieter, comforting tone. 

Of course, Ecthelion thought so. There was something between them, that the two hadn’t admitted to one another, perhaps they hadn’t realised it yet either, but Ecthelion would be a fool to blind himself to it. Someone had once told him, the lover knew when another loved as they did. 

There wasn't a thing about Glorfindel that didn't perfectly complement Thranduil; silver and gold, blue and green, the sea and the forest. Ecthelion swallowed a lump of envy that caught in his throat as he watched them quietly, feeling as though he was prying on something not meant for his eyes. Ecthelion stared at them, unabashed. Though they stood close, there was a space between them, but still, their shadows seemed to have melted into one another.

Glorfindel, whose attention had been focused with feverish intensity on Ecthelion all this while, was tender as his eyes followed Thranduil, a glowing blue. 

 

“But it isn’t Thranduil he wants,” Elcallon tore through his thoughts, “It’s you.” 

Somewhere, Ecthelion knew that he couldn’t trust Elcallon’s judgement, even if he had known Glorfindel a few hours and was a stranger to Thranduil, he could see through their act, uncover from their sudden silences, the void of lingering, unspoken words. 

Thranduil to Glorfindel was not, could possibly not, be who Ecthelion was to him. But then again, never could Ecthelion dream of making whatever the two of them had for each other his own. He bit his lip, wanting to look away and pretend he hadn’t noticed them at all. Climbing over his mountain of doubts was now envy, yearning, a stab of inadequacy. But, it was the vague unease that had begun to float over his thoughts, like oil over water, that bothered him most. 

Ecthelion couldn’t help but get the feeling he had been caught unaware in the tangle of something more. As if he had set his eyes upon what was not meant for him to see, and that it would haunt him. This was the shadow cast over him and his desires, the shadow of Thranduil's secrets over Ecthelion and that of Ecthelion's gilded hopes over Glorfindel; what would that make them? Locked in a cat's cradle, fingers tangled through the vivid red string of fate, whose hands played with whom? Who had set this game into motion? 

"I know you're jealous, Ecthelion, but you could try being a little more subtle," Elcallon muttered, "The way you're staring, you could burn a hole into His Majesty's robes." 

"Jealous?" Ecthelion sputtered, caught off guard by the seemingly innocent comment, "Of course not! I'm just," he faltered, clueless entirely to what it was he actually felt, though he knew that branding it as burning jealousy was simply far too simple, "Observing them?" 

"If he is Glorfindel's dearest friend," Ecthelion began again with certainty to his tone, "Then, I must keep an eye on Thranduil, shouldn't I?" 

Not at all subtly, Elcallon rolled his eyes in frustration, he shrugged as if he had given up, bringing to notice the long sabre slung over his shoulder. “I hope you’ll figure it out yourself.” 

Pointedly ignoring his quip, Echtelion cast a quick glance around the arena, where the space cleared out for the night’s performance was empty. "Aren't you late for your performance?" Ecthelion demanded, then he frowned, eyebrows furrowed doubtfully, "Or am I the one who missed it?" 

Elcallon clapped his back warmly, "Neither of the two, my friend. The performances we’ve been hard at work for can hardly hold a candle to what has been announced for the evening." There was a sharp twinge of annoyance masked by the cheery tone of his voice

"And what must that be?" Ecthelion asked tiredly, knowing that Elcallon had a flair for the dramatic that he would insist on showcasing anytime and anywhere. 

"We are to have a divine guest, a herald of the Valar, since this is no ordinary Summer Festival." He sighed, running a hand through his carefully styled air, letting the shorter strands spill onto his forehead. 

"Right," Ecthelion nodded, "We are all here now, aren't we?" 

"You could say that, I suppose. Not that the high-bred folks in Aman would wait for the Avari to make their way over here." 

Ecthelion looked away, only to be chided half-heartedly by Elcallon. "Nevermind," he sighed, "I'm a little bitter that's all, this hasn't been the best day so far." 

“I’m sorry about that,” he sighed, only to have Elcallon groan in annoyance, tightening the arm he had around Ecthelion’s neck, resting his entire weight (sabre and all) over the yelping Lord of the Fountain. 

Taking advantage of the fact that Elcallon had effectively draped himself over his body, Ecthelion made a conspicuous turn, walking straight toward a gathering crowd and mingling between them, primly ignoring the questioning glances that came their way. Having reached his destination, that is anywhere far from Glorfindel’s searching eyes that wouldn’t offer a clear vision of Thranduil absently tucked brilliant gold hair behind the former’s bejewelled ears, Ecthelion pried Elcallon off himself and sighed in relief. 

“What was that about?” Elcallon demanded, eyeing him in suspicion. Ecthelion shrugged, directing a sunny expression over at the shorter elf, feeling infinitely less burdened by whatever had been clouding his mind since he had seen them together. 

“It seemed like everyone was gathering here for a reason?” He lied smoothly, “Now, how about we get to where this grand revelation is meant to take place?” 

Elcallon elbowed him sharply, “I cannot believe you! You didn’t know what to make of how you felt so you just walked away, without an explanation?” He ran a hand through his hair again, this time frustrated; Ecthelion shifted uneasily until he peered at Elcallon and realised that there was something about his pensive expression, flickering light in the luminous amber of his eyes and how he seemed to be chewing on the inside of his cheek.  

The sound of his voice, just now loud and half-amused, had dropped to a low whisper, “He was looking for you,” Elcallon murmured, there were tears swimming in his eyes, “He was waiting…...” 

“Elcallon….?” The latter called out hesitantly, regarding him with careful concern; he had a feeling this had to do something with Erestor. Just as Ecthelion’s own perceptions that day had been coloured in an entirely new hue by Glorfindel (and now Thranduil’s) presence, he was certain that Erestor’s arrival (and their seemingly tense interaction) had not strayed from Elcallon’s mind; regardless of whether or not he pretended to be his ordinary self. 

“It’s my fault,” he breathed out, more to himself, slumping against Ecthelion’s broad chest. “I can’t believe I was so blind, I thought I’d got my head out of the water.” 

Ecthelion wrapped his arm around his shoulder, steadying him; at once, Elcallon seemed so much smaller, younger with that startled look on his face, tear-studded gold eyes that looked as if the light had been snuffed out of them; just as he had been when Ecthelion had seen him by the seashore all those weeks ago, almost a spectre of the person he pretended to be. 

“It’ll be alright,” he murmured, rubbing his arm comfortingly. He shielded Elcallon’s stiff form as the crowd began to build up, making his way through it to the centre stage around which everyone had formed a circle, the grip he had on his friend almost protective. 

As Elcallon tried to gather himself, Ecthelion made the mistake of raising his eyes to the dais, only to have the light flooding through his vision, as if he had been blindfolded all along.Several others like him who had been (literally) blinded by curiosity hissed and groaned in a unanimous hum that washed through the crowd, to Elcallon’s amusement. 

“You should know better by now,” he guffawed, though his laughter was still watery. Ecthelion managed a smile, glad that Elcallon’s mood at least had been lifted out of the pit of sadness within which it had descended, nodding mournfully to himself. 

The Maiar, whenever they presented themselves to the inhabitants of the Blessed Lands, would take forms that could be perceived by elven eyes; these guises, however, had continually failed to be the more inconspicuous forms that the Istari had taken in Middle Earth, and tended to be rather abstract, blinding, and generally the sort that even the best of elven eyes could barely decipher. Thus, what had attracted the gaggle of whispering people to the dais had been not so much a being as a bedazzling column of luminescence that had struck the makeshift stage like lightning (though They had put the small sparking fire out on their own). Some said that the elves who had beheld the Light of the Two Trees of Valinor could see through the grand illusion, though Ecthelion, being one of them, had virtually given up on having possessing whatever divine sight that would require. 

Even Lady Galadriel had once confided that she could barely make sense of the Maiar and their varied forms, she preferred to meet Mithrandir in the shape of an old gnarly wizard than as a flock of swallows that spoke in a single voice or a gust of autumnal wind. 

 

When he let them flutter open, all Ecthelion could see were sunspots dancing like sprites in the field of his vision; impatiently, he tugged at Elcallon’s sleeve, urging the seemingly stunned elf to be his sight and relay what he couldn’t see. Dissatisfied by the lack of a response, he cracked an eye open, only to catch his breath at the luminescence of the Maiar’s form reflected in the hollow gold of his irises. Elcallon’s jaw had dropped open, as he followed the forms of four elves, emerging from their own corners of the crowd, they could be nobody else but the Last of the Elves. 

Ecthelion saw no reason for their presence to have shocked him so, if the Maiar had announced themself all of a sudden on one among many Summer Festivals, it was undoubtedly for a divine acknowledgement of the newly arrived from Arda. Shaking himself away from Elcallon’s astonishment, Ecthelion shifted his focus to what the Maiar seemed to be saying, only to realise that he lacked the ability to perceive them through any of his senses to his annoyance. 

Thus, giving up on both Elcallon's distinct lack of commentary and his own compromised vision, Ecthelion strained his ears to catch the hushed whispers that had slowly begun to pick up their volume. The throng of merry-making elves was as captured in the scene that unfolded before them as Elcallon was, but rather than being caught speechless, as he was, they erupted in exclamations of wonder and awe with every dialogue exchanged.

"Soul-mates? Already!?" An ellon gasped in astonishment, making Ecthelion whip his head around in the direction of his voice. The blinding lights of the carnival erupted into the field of his vision, making him wince.

"What is that to mean for the rest of us? If they are the last of the Elves to arrive upon these shores—" Another was whisper was shushed down into the question that was undoubtedly on everybody’s mind, though Ecthelion knew better than to impulsively search for the speaker in the crowd and ruin recovery of his sight.

Elcallon's fingers were gripping at Ecthelion's borrowed robes, a tremor racking through him that the elder observed by cracking his eye open. His eyes looked dazed almost, bright irises rippling gold as if set ablaze after years of stillness. Somehow, carefully, Ecthelion followed the line of his vision to Erestor's lithe form, shoulder pressed against Thranduil’s, positioned closest to the curious onlookers. 

Dressed in rich robes, crafted of a fabric that seemingly shifted colours, from an ultramarine blue to jewel-toned moss green, then to glittering obsidian, he stood tall, with tense shoulders and bowed head. His striking eyes were so dark they seemed to hold nothing but the Maiar’s flickering form, reflecting in almost blinding gold, like Elcallon's. The expression on his defined features, however, was coloured painfully with exhaustion, akin to one who had been jolted awake from a slumber after years of sleeplessness. Even at a far-sighted glimpse, such as Ecthelion’s own, there was something that burdened him, perhaps he was all too aware of the weight of Elcallon’s gaze that was reluctant to let him go. 

Beside Erestor was Thranduil, a vision of regality in the shimmering deep forest green of his robe, silver vambraces of mithril over his forearms that served an aesthetic purpose rather than protective, a sash of pale silk was draped over his arms. Adorning his ear was a single drop of smoothly-shaped and polished jade, hanging on a rather delicate chain of silver. He, unlike Erestor, kept his eyes to some unknown point beyond the Maia’s incorporeal form, his expression set to attentive neutrality. 

Simply because Ecthelion was pathetically, undeniably, unfortunately himself, his eyes strayed to Glorfindel who, with shoulders pressed against Thranduil’s, had planted his feet right before that pillar of light resolutely in a swift and fearless step forward.

In that light that the being cast upon him, his eyes too looked as gold as his famed sun-spun hair. 

He was an imposing figure, with that determined tilt of his jaw, the only one among them who wasn't yet drained of all his strength to be able to look the Maiar straight in the eye and demand a resounding 'Why?'

Once again, the reactions broke within the crowd that surrounded Ecthelion, something closer to astonished gasps and hushed murmurs of shock than the initial excitement. Their whispers swallowed down what the Maia had to say in response, much to Ecthelion's disappointment, which he tried to push down by briefly focusing his attention on a still stupefied Elcallon.

"Not with your eyes will you see, Twice-Born, look within." They sounded the way that Light would taste, like smoke and nectarines, harsh like the afternoon sun rays through the flimsy shade of a paper umbrella.

As the world held their breaths, Elcallon let his out with a strangled sound. Though wordless, it seemed to hold an edge of insane joy, thunderous relief and above all, an unspoken urge to break into heaving sobs at that instant. Ecthelion almost thought that there'd be a roar of fire if his mouth fell open, that it would burn everything to ashes. It was that fire that set everything ablaze inside him, his eyes were open so wide as if he had lit the world to life. Almost as if everything that stretched on from the line of his vision was born of his dreams, except Elcallon had no idea whether he had dreamt himself a nightmare. 

His fingers curled around Ecthelion's wrist, sending a shock of burning static through his body, making him flinch. Reflexively, Ecthelion squeezed his eyes shut, startled by the strength of his grip. It was clear that none of it was Elcallon's doing just as a sharp pain shot through the line of his scalp, triggering a momentary sting before his ears popped, and suddenly he could hear every sound in the universe through a stupendous silence.

In that darkness, seared against his eyelids were the eyes of a dragon’s, irises of kaleidoscopic gold that rippled as if the sea had drowned in their depths. Ecthelion held his breath, watching as the vibrancy began to fade to something softer and rooted closer to reality, darker and earthly, like whispering woods of swallowed secrets.

Then once again, his vision clouded over to pitch darkness, and after a split-second of confusion, he realised his eyes were wide open, swallowing the inky star-studded sky.

The silence still lingered.

In Ecthelion's eyes, the tides had paused in their turning, nobody said a word, awaiting a stranger's fate as if it was their own.

 

From that silence came Glorfindel's sharp intake of breath, from what felt like leagues apart. He stepped forward, flickering eyes searching that pillar of light as if he could hold its gaze; if there was anybody who could look past blinding energy and stare fearlessly at it, it would be this reborn Glorfindel.

Before Ecthelion knew it, Glorfindel’s gaze had shifted, pinning him down effortlessly, just as their eyes met; a burning warmth flooded his lungs, his heart beating as if it was the first time it had ever lived. Only Eru knew how Glorfindel had found him within that crowd of thousands, but he stared at him with a heat that threatened to melt Ecthelion’s face off as if he was made of wax, to have it drip off his jaw.  

He looked away just as soon, leaving Ecthelion a gasping mess, wondering when his breath had been knocked out of his throat and replaced by butterflies.

He couldn’t take his eyes off him, silver-grey of the Fountain Lord’s gaze traced his silhouette, from the sculpted bridge of his nose to his parted mouth, the cutting-edge of his jaw that met the prominent veins of his long neck, and the tense muscles of his shoulders; slithering down to his exposed biceps, then his fine-boned fingers. And his left hand that strayed to touch the tightly wound fist of elaborately ringed fingers; that, at the slightest graze over his knuckles, made Thranduil’s hands unfurl open instantly, almost a reflex.

Ecthelion took in a heavy gulp, as the edges of their palms folded into one another, and then the skin of their wrists pressed tightly together until all that was left was to lace their fingers and hold on. 

As if their hands had found their ways together their whole lives. As if the veins under their skin ran blood into the other’s heart as if they had found completion within the two of them. 

 

“The Undying Lands are not made for seclusion. Life is made to be lived in togetherness, one feä chooses one other, and through My eyes, you have seen. You know now. ” 

Glorfindel raised his eyes to them as if he was staring at a face rather than a ray of burning, breathing light, when he stepped forward, Thranduil followed too, though it was his grip around Glorfindel’s hand that held him back. 

“I don’t understand.” He murmured, and Ecthelion wondered if it was only him who had heard it. He was bathed in his own glow, out of nowhere he seemed to have gained a radiance that almost rivalled that of the divine being that had made their presence known before them all. It was no wonder then, that he countered a Maia so fearlessly as if it were a mere exchange of words. 

“Tell me how this has come to be,” he enunciated in a lilting Valian Quenya that they had spoken in the old days. At the sound of his voice, cracks had appeared over the ice of that precarious silence, and when he would speak, all hell would break loose. 

Far away, the waves broke against the rocks. Lighting struck the centre of the ocean. Glorfindel spoke. “Tell me why.”

One tongue, three voices, charged with something more. 

“Tell me why I see two.”

Notes:

yes ecthelion's being a dramaqueen. all the characters i write, like me, are terrible overthinkers and walk straight into problems because they don't try looking at the world objectively, the way that they should rip.
oh right, I'm not an expert on the maiar but I'm just working with the original vision i had for this scene, even though its taken too many months to get translated into writing <3 next chapter goes on with fin's pov <33
if i get comments,,,,,,,,, i will,,,,,, well, there isn't much i can do but. i'll be very happy, thank u goodnight.

Chapter 8: Eight

Summary:

You've been running, running your whole life.
But your paths are circles.
What is futile? What does fate make of it?

Or,
A bunch of nonsense in the preceding segment basically means,
the game is afoot, the plot has been set-up,
there's no turning back now.

Notes:

HI! how many months this time? i'm hoping that with this chapter written down, my ideas will flow more smoothly as i develop the more interesting/slice of life parts of the story! anyway, thank you so much for checking again <3 i hope you'll enjoy the chapter!
happy new year in advance, i've barely processed the end of 2020 and now 2021 is passing us by. how is this even possible.

ANYWAY thanks for reading through this year, i love you all!!!!

8.

If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,

you will remind me,

There is nowhere to go if you are already here, 

and pat your hand on your lap lighted by the topazion lux of the moon through the window,

say, Here, Love, sit here— when I do,

I will say, And here I still am.

— Natalie Diaz, If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert 

 

Erestor had forgotten the sensation of reality altogether. Ever since he had shut his eyes to Thranduil’s heartbreak, and opened them to Elcallon’s hope, everything had spiralled out of his control. 

Though the memory of being shaken awake by a worried Celebrían was still clear, some part of his mind was convinced that he was still asleep, warm under the cloak of his slumber, shielding him from the cruel sense of justice that the Other Side possessed. When he was pushed out of his snug spot between the twins’ muscular frames, escorted by a faceless elf up to the dais, only to find himself beside an uneasy Thranduil, Erestor hadn’t thought much of it. Well, nothing apart from a silent question to his unconscious mind that cooked up the most mundane of events as fodder for his dreams. 

And then there was Glorfindel, bounding up two steps at a time, the gold of his hair gleaming bright like a beacon shielding them from the dark uncertainty of the night, and his eyes even brighter with curiosity, making Erestor realise that perhaps he had found himself within some convoluted reality. 

And then, the flood of light that had crashed down like a too silent meteorite had moulded itself into some semblance of an elven form, but altogether too bright and saturated to pull Erestor out of his state of disbelief. 

If anything, they were a fever-dream, a strange entity that seemed to personify the strangeness of the Undying Lands; which was to say, in Erestor’s head, unexplainably blinding and impossible to make sense of. They stretched on from the ground in a stream of light, hands and feet that shifted like they were shadows and sunlight, covered by an almost translucent robe that left much to imagination considering they were made of rays that had Erestor’s eyes burning as if he has stared at the sun too long. 

He followed the shock of smooth flaxen hair that flowed till the shifting shape of their bare feet, and up again, to the face, that was impossible to perceive with the average elven vision. They looked like a halo turned the wrong way. Which was simply to say that their face was made of multiple rings of light that circled and fizzled around themselves. The eyes were unending shadows that gleamed like mirrors if he looked closely, altogether too much for him to make sense of. 

He turned his head to Thranduil’s side, to have the taller elf flash him a strained smile as if he sympathised with the impossibility of having to face a strange being just a few hours shy of their arrival. Beside the Elvenking was Glorfindel, the only one who could stare directly at the Maia without frying his eyeballs, which wasn’t in the least surprising since Glorfindel was Glorfindel, and that was an irrefutable logic for Erestor at the time being. Beside him stood Lord Celeborn, at ease and embodying a serenity none of them felt, the soft silvery blue of his robes soothing Erestor’s eyes from the onslaught of the overly saturated gold of the scene painted before him. 

When the entity spoke, Erestor winced, its disembodied voice felt like a sharp sting of static against his temples, inspiring a discomfort he was forced to endure. But on the bright side, if there was one, he felt more awake and alive than he had ever since their arrival, his eyes struggled to flutter shut when it felt like they were being poked at with a long needle. 

“Aman is made for life.” They began, the start of a monologue Erestor wasn’t sure he had the energy to attend to, “On this account, Eru the Almighty has granted the Eldar residing upon these shores a great blessing." 

Erestor gulped, suddenly feeling the dizziness dissipate into something akin to a weight growing in the centre of his forehead. His sense of foreboding meant nothing good, regardless of what this 'great blessing' was declared to be, Erestor knew it would do nothing else but add to his own burdens. He sighed to himself, cursing at whatever force had pushed him to set sail in the first place, and also at whoever had woken him up. 

"To welcome the four of you to the eternality of your lives, and to aid your adjustment, the Valar under the command of the Iluvatar have decided to reveal those souls that your feär have bonded to."

The whispers began to rise just that instant, gasps and mutterings conveying envy and shock. 

Erestor, who was still processing whatever it was that had been declared by this painfully bright deity, paid them no mind. Instead, he let his eyes wander over the great sea of people side-eyeing the four confused elves on the dais and whispering in each others' ears. 

And simply because he had not lost the habit, even though ages had passed for all he knew, Erestor picked Elcallon's shell-shocked face from the crowd. Though he barely understood what exactly this bonding of souls or whatever else the Maia had revealed, he felt cold curling within him at the sight of Elcallon's expression of complete and utter disbelief, or what seemed closer to fear. Tracing the unearthly gold of his eyes, the hair spilling into his forehead, the dusting of silver upon the bronze of his cheeks, he loathed how helpless he was, still was, to the mere sight of Elcallon. 

The Maia had uttered another string of words that was incomprehensible to Erestor, whose gaze was fixed still on Elcallon. Elcallon who had by the time schooled his features into something more neutral, uneasy as if he felt the eyes upon him. He had turned his head to the side to whisper to a towering elf watching him with concern, who Erestor identified as Ecthelion of the Fountain. 

In a split second of complete coincidental chance, Elcallon raised his eyes to Erestor's, and with that same meteorite crash of blazing light, the world melted to nothing. All that had once been razed to ash, leaving only Erestor, Elcallon and the great expanse of the sea between them. 

They were so bright, his eyes, gold and fanning the flames of anger and guilt and frustrations and hatred. And of longing and a great wave of love that crashed right to Erestor's chest and sent him reeling. 

He was thrown out of the nothingness out of nowhere, back into the real world that was a flood of light, burning him all over again. 

"And now you know." The Maia declared, the resounding conclusion of something that was already lost to Erestor.  

 

He didn't know then. He had always known. 

There had not once been anyone but Elcallon for Erestor, it scared him. The Sea had called for him, or perhaps something else had, but he was meant for nobody, nothing else. 

At the end of the day, at the edge of the shore, at the crossroads, it was Elcallon. It had always been Elcallon. It was always going to be Elcallon. 

And as Erestor had waited, knowingly, unknowingly. 

Fate had caught up. 

He drew in a breath, just as Glorfindel's voice rang out, "Tell me how this has come to be," a breathless pause, "Tell me why." 

*~*~*

"Tell me why I see two!"

The Maia before him looked eerily nonchalant as Glorfindel sputtered out his words, he held his tongue, no matter how that silence sparked his impatience. The form was flickering, settling into something less abstract, sharpening as if they were moulting from the disguise down to their true form. The moment that the being had descended, like a crack of lightning, Glorfindel had likened their face to a halo turned inside out. He had leaned forward to whisper his observation into the ear of a rather irritable Thranduil, who had simply pursed his lips, eyes downcast and brows furrowed. 

He stood by it: their form was so blindingly bright that it had almost engulfed the light from the world around it, dousing it into shadows.  

As he stepped forward, raising his chin up high (even though Thranduil had hissed incomprehensibly at him in warning), Glorfindel could feel his retinas burn as if the Maia were chastising him for his impertinence, having dared to fire a question at them.

Their form had been shifting all this while, had flickered and frozen onto something perceivable by the elven eye, yet stayed true to the incandescence of their nature. The veil of light surrounding them seemed to have fallen, to reveal shapely almond eyes, set with irises so golden, they were almost colourless, like mirrors reflecting Glorfindel’s back at him. Catching sight of their face, their true face, Glorfindel stumbled back, held up only by Thranduil’s grip around his hand. Even his jaw had dropped, and Glorfindel found himself raising a shaking finger at Them, only to have it held down against his will. 

The waterfall of sun-spun hair, floating down to touch their toes, the bronze of their skin, shimmering as if it were studded with tiny little mirrors. Their lithe frame, strong shoulders and lean waist, and the rest of their form, just pure unfiltered light; it was a miracle Glorfindel could even see. 

And yet, he wished he hadn’t. Now that he had, he didn’t think he could ever tear his eyes from them. He couldn’t pull away from that face that he could swear was his own.

The Maia, on their part, was staring back at him with that unearthly gaze, amusement playing upon that mouth as if they knew that his mind was reeling, struggling to catch up with the distorted reality his eyes had beheld. 

 

“Who are you?” was the question that almost broke out of him, if not for the fact that Glorfindel had been stunned speechless. Fortunately, that meant that he wouldn’t let his mouth run foolishly and bring the wrath of a divine being upon him. 

“Oh Laurefindil,” the being spoke and Glorfindel flinched. That disembodied voice sounded far too familiar yet felt unexplainably wrong as it echoed within the empty chambers of his mind. The sound stung his temples as if he was being subjected to an unending shock, making him grit his teeth together to keep from hissing out his pain. 

“You aren’t only a person, are you?” 

Glorfindel couldn’t put a name to how he could sense the pretence of pity in the words they conveyed, nor the apprehension it elicited within him as if their words would come to affirm his so-far unfounded fears. 

“What else? Who am I then?” he demanded hysterically, not daring to voice his thoughts. 

“Of two lives and two forms, Laurefindil, you are one soul in two lifetimes, born and reborn,” 

He drew in a breath, knowing what was to come, and when that voice spoke, it was to the world: “You are made of more. And so, you are.”

Next he remembered, it was Thranduil watching worriedly over him, Celeborn in the corner enveloped in the soul-crushing hug that Lady Galadriel had shaken her elegance off for, and Erestor glancing uneasily past the dais as if he was waiting for something to catch up to him. 

"Who did you see?" Glorfindel mumbled, dragging his arm over his forehead to shield his burning eyeballs. Even with his eyes closed, Glorfindel knew they were exchanging looks between the two of them. Thranduil held on to his stony silence, though the grip he had over Glorfindel's shoulder had softened. 

"Nothing out of the world," Erestor answered. A tiny scoff of amusement burst out of him, "Besides, you're not one to be asking me of all people." 

"A fucking anomaly is what you are." The louder voice startled him out of his half-slumber, none of that dull and dejected Elcallon by the cliff. 

A hurried shush directed at Elcallon had him cackling before his laughter paused abruptly, followed by footsteps drawing away. Glorfindel felt the solid weight he had been leaning against pull away, making him open his eyes to see Thranduil edging towards a crowd of silver-haired Sindars without a word. 

The scowl that began to turn the smooth corners of his mouth down curled up into a smile just as another face revealed itself to him. Ecthelion's hands cupped gently at his cheeks, grazing against his forehead before he let them rest over Glorfindel's shoulders. He met Ecthelion's voice, unconsciously pouting his mouth, something that made Ecthelion avert his eyes politely, though he leaned closer. He heard Elcallon feign a gag, something that Glorfindel ignored easily, though from the corner of his eyes he could see Erestor, standing a few paces away, regarding the man who was obviously his soulmate with a complicated look. 

"I missed you," Glorfindel told Ecthelion shamelessly, "You just disappeared on me." 

Ecthelion let out an exhale disguised as a laugh, grey eyes flickering for a moment to a suddenly quiet Elcallon, before he offered an obviously plastered smile. "That would be his fault," he elbowed Elcallon, who played his part of the offended friend perfectly, a yelp and an eye-roll. 

Glorfindel wondered if Erestor would see past the pretence as well as he could. It seemed that he did, but the way his resolutely downcast eyes wandered against his will to stare at Elcallon time and again meant that he was clearly distracted. 

Ecthelion's palm patted gently at Glorfindel's hair, fingers lightly stroking over his hair, "I'm sorry," he murmured. 

Glorfindel was lost for a moment in the clarity of his irises, and the sharp blade of his jaw, another faded scar against his brow and in their proximity, shook his head. "Nevermind that," he sighed, "As long as you're by my side right now."

Erestor scoffed somewhere in the background, and Elcallon gasped almost inaudibly, staring at the other in barely disguised surprise. They had a small exchange of looks between them, something that Glorfindel didn't pay any attention to.  

"I'm glad then," Ecthelion replied in a whisper, flashing him a tiny smile that had Glorfindel's heart skip a beat, making all the energy return to his body in a great rush. But in a moment of selfishness, Glorfindel let himself stay seated on the dais, with Ecthelion's hand over his head and his lean torso pressed up beside Glorfindel's shoulders. Considering their little conversation finished, Ecthelion made to turn away, only just realising the intense session of clueless and sneaky staring that Erestor and Elcallon had lost themselves in. 

"I saw you!" Glorfindel spoke up, not wanting the attention to be drawn away from him yet. 

Ecthelion choked on thin air, his eyes widening as he turned back to stare at Glorfindel with a wild look in his eyes. "Where? Back then?" 

"In the vision, I mean," he added lamely, "The Maia showed me a vision of you." 

"Oh." 

"Yeah." He gulped, not knowing how to add that he wasn't the only one, half wishing Ecthelion would somehow figure it out for himself in his head. 

"And the other person? You saw two, didn't you?" 

It stung, Glorfindel would admit, that he had leapt straight to the question of the other rather than revelling in the knowledge that the two of them were fated in the first place.

He considered apologising, for having tied Ecthelion to him, and in association to the whole bout of confusion that came with it. But it was a fact that Glorfindel hadn't any more control over this Valar-ordained crap than anyone else did. He took in a breath of air, which felt more like swallowing a tornado rather than offering the calming effect he had been going for.

"It's—" he began, only for Ecthelion to hold his gaze and steal the name from his mouth. 

"It's Thranduil, isn't it?" 

A beat of silence. Two pairs of eyes eyed them curiously, though neither Glorfindel nor Ecthelion paid them any mind. He nodded, keeping his eyes closed, when he opened them, they spoke together once again.

"His Highness, I mean," Ecthelion coughed, "The King of Greenwood." 

"I guess I was loud enough that everyone heard, huh," Glorfindel muttered, making Ecthelion's spooked expression melt into a crooked smile. 

"It wasn't that you were too loud," he shrugged, offering consolation, "Rather, everyone was stunned into silence since you spoke in the first place." 

Glorfindel shook his head, managing a smile, "Same thing." 

They stayed silent for a while, Glorfindel sieving through the memory of that evening, of Ecthelion shedding the skins he wore in his dreams and becoming a real, living person. He was terrifying; every moment that Glorfindel felt his warmth seeping into his skin the way they sat pressed together, and every breath that he drew and let out, it was all he could think of. 

The reality of him, the fact that he was thinking and feeling and perceiving Glorfindel in some way or another. The fact that he might find out somehow that Glorfindel had wanted to kiss him or reach for him or just, want him some way or another since his memories had begun to resurface, that he had been thrown into the complications of being loved by a fucking anomaly. 

That there had been a mirror that Glorfindel had stared at the whole time, an idea, an illusion that he had built into a real person. And that the mirror was cracking, and that the illusion was built almost the same reality, but that Ecthelion was so much more. That Glorfindel wanted more. 

He glanced at Thranduil, who stood far far away beyond his reach, eyebrows drawn in a knot as he stared intently at the wine in his goblet as if it was blood. Glorfindel ran his eyes down the shimmering green of his robes, the ones that he had helped Thranduil pick out for the ceremony back when they were still trapped together in the tiny chamber of the ship. A simpler time it had been, he felt, just that morning, and the afternoon, when Thranduil had been pressed against him, hand in hand. Back when he had still wanted to meet Glorfindel's eyes and had never thought to keep him at arm's length. It was an ache that had held him in a chokehold ever since Thranduil had let his hand go, it felt as if his heart were being carved out with an ivory knife. He wanted him so badly, Glorfindel clutched at the fabric of his robes, gritting his teeth as his friend resolutely turned his back to him. 

"Maybe we should get you something to eat." Ecthelion intoned, his voice gentle as if he were addressing a lost child. 

When Glorfindel turned to face him again, he knew that Ecthelion had been watching him the whole time he had stared unabashedly at Thranduil, with all that longing dripping from his eyes. He didn't dare to say a word, only nodding along as he rose to his feet, following Ecthelion who led the way toward some or the other buffet table laden with the spoils of the banquet. 

Glorfindel had only but taken a nibble out of the strawberry pastry he had picked out (only at Ecthelion's behest and that smouldering look of worry he had flashed) when the trio from Gondolin, Rog, Egalmoth and Duilin crossed paths with them. On instinct, Glorfindel straightened, all too aware that he could rely neither on his infectious energy nor on the seemingly natural charms of his personality. He cast a side-eye at Ecthelion who had perked up visibly on catching sight of them, wishing he had stayed behind with Erestor and Elcallon, even with the claustrophobic tension between them. 

"Wait," Ecthelion murmured, taking a step forward so he was shielding Glorfindel from his friends. 

"Yeah?" He replied breathlessly, a flush rising to his cheeks as Ecthelion caged him partially. 

"Forgive me for being presumptuous," he started, eyes flickering down for a moment to his mouth, though Glorfindel was too distracted to notice, "But you don't seem like you're up to take on their chaos just yet." 

Glorfindel took a step back, then shrugged his shoulders easily, as if he wasn't reeling under all the bombshells thrown at him through the course of that evening. "You're right," he sighed, attempting to brighten his expression with a smile that ended up too feeble. 

If Ecthelion had figured out this much, Glorfindel hoped he'd go the extra mile and understand that he wanted nothing but to be left to his own devices, purely because he didn't think himself capable or capable to express that desire for solitude just yet. 

"You can take your time. I'll deal with them," Ecthelion smiled. He made to move away, but in an afterthought reached a hand to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Glorfindel's ear, petting the side of his head in the process. "Wherever you go, I promise I'll come find you." 

The gratitude that Glorfindel meant to mention went unvoiced, his heart beating too hard for no apparent reason. He managed a shaky nod as Ecthelion peered down at him, hesitating for a moment as if he didn't want to leave him Glorfindel alone. "I'll be alright," he mumbled instead, "Go on ahead." 

"If you say so," Ecthelion whispered, pulling away to keep his hands to himself. He turned around and walked after a little wave of goodbye. 

As he watched Ecthelion's retreating back, dressed in the lavender of his own robes, the broad shoulders and waves of dark hair, there was something that seemed to grab at his throat, leaving him choking for a breath. When Ecthelion had melted into the crowd already, pushing his way between his curious friends, Glorfindel went his own way, toward the dais. Finding it empty, even of the sparse gathering of Thranduil and his kin who had been standing a few metres away, he edged toward the beach. Already, his head felt woozy and so Glorfindel pressed the heel of his palm against his temple, taking a bite from the puff pastry that tasted like sand. 

All Glorfindel wished for, as a wave of deja vu washed over him, was a place to curl up and sleep. To forget about Aman, and the curse that had bound two others to his twisted fate, and the Voice in his head that had begun to sound more like himself each passing day. Swallowing down the final piece of the pastry, he wrapped an arm around his throbbing side and stomped through the sand that was determined to sink his feet in.

As he guided himself over to the seashore, he chanced upon Erestor and Elcallon sitting with legs outstretched in the silvery sand. Inquisitively and not quite unintentionally, Glorfindel slowed his pace to catch what he could of their muffled conversation.

"Unexpected?" Elcallon quipped, his jaw tense and neck held high, a manner suggesting that he was only pretending to look the other way. "Is that what it is? You didn't think it would be me of all people."

His gaze, sharp and alert, seemed oblivious to everything but Erestor's presence. Perhaps he was savouring it, having been deprived of him so long.

Glorfindel smiled to himself, he remembered all too well how fond Elcallon had gotten of Erestor, a longing that Elcallon himself had complained about one too many times. At a time, he had been petrified of his attachment to his lover. As someone who had been drifting his whole life, it was overwhelming, he had said, that one person could have made him question everything he had known he wanted without even realising it.

He has such a hold over me, he had confessed, eyes burning with passion, bright with fear, I don't think he knows it, I don't know how I let him have it.

He wondered whether Erestor's memory had kept Elcallon from embodying the change he had been searching for since he had sailed, just as Elcallon's ghost haunted all of Erestor's choices.

The moonlight that spilled over Erestor made him appear like the half-moon himself. The side of his face bathed in moonshine seemed to soften, the telltale of a smile that appeared and vanished in the breaking of a tide. He sighed, a sound more indulgent than tired, the kind Glorfindel hadn't heard from him all this while until Elcallon.

"Rather, I dreaded this journey because I knew it would be you," Erestor confessed, with a tilt of his head toward Elcallon, studying him intently.

When he spoke, the latter's voice betrayed no emotion but that of detached amusement, "What about now? Are you satisfied?"

"Wouldn't I feel triumphant on being proven right?"

"Is that it?" Elcallon demanded, the mask almost cracking, if not for the smirk he flashed at the end. He made it seem like a wager they had set amongst themselves, whether they were meant for something more. Meant for one another.

Propping his chin over the heel of his palm, Erestor observed. "It appears as though you're the one who is expecting something from me.

"What is it that you're waiting for me to feel? What do you want from me?" He rested his chin on the heel of his palm, watching Elcallon with drowsy eyes. 

Elcallon's bottom lip quivered, as if he was battling an urge to speak, but trying to hold his silence. Finally, he spoke, choosing his words carefully as if he was approaching the precipice of a heated battle. "Is this what you wanted?"

The whites of his eyes were gleaming, and the flaming gold even brighter. Glorfindel held his breath, it was not his place to watch but he stood his ground, waiting for an answer. Elcallon's question, put into easier words was loud and clear, the only thing that no doubt anyone else in their place was wondering, as Glorfindel too was.

"Am I whom you want? Am I enough for you?"

"Who else?" said Erestor, he said it so effortlessly. Elcallon exhaled, his eyes now trained upon Erestor, he was tired of pretending already, so soon.

"If this was how it was bound to be, I'm relieved it was you. Wouldn't it be bothersome to have a stranger pin their hopes upon you?"

Elcallon scoffed, there was a look of gut-wrenching hurt that bloomed in his face like a bruise, quickly he turned away so Erestor wouldn't catch it. "Didn't you say I was expecting something from you? You don't think I've been waiting here long enough that I want you to give me something?"

His voice almost wavered with the weight of his biting honesty, but behind the nonchalance was a hidden vulnerability so crystal clear that it made Glorfindel wince. There was no question that Erestor, who knew Elcallon better than anyone else, could see through the facade, perhaps that had been Elcallon's intention from the start.

Erestor cocked his head to the side, for the first time turning to gaze at Elcallon directly, moonlight pooling in the dark of his eyes making them gleam an unearthly silver. On instinct, or perhaps by choice, Elcallon too lifted his chin to Erestor's direction. The latter managed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, "Maybe that's it," Erestor murmured, "You know me too well, you've known me too long."

Elcallon's sharp inhale made even Glorfindel startle, he clenched his fingers tightly into his palms, watching golden eyes flicker with uncertainty; that was another kind of hope too, perhaps. Erestor drew close to him for a moment, holding his breath as he did, shaking his head once again. "You know better than to have any hopes, don't you?"

Elcallon watched him silently, the look of a man who wanted to speak words but had not yet come to the realisation that he was out of breath. As he opened his mouth, Glorfindel too leaned forward, his interest piqued in breathless curiosity. Some part of him was convinced their story was intertwined with his, if they fell then he too would drown.

A gentle tap on his shoulder startled him out of his intense focus, as his reflexes kicked in, Glorfindel managed to hold his ground, though he felt unnervingly close to sinking into the sand of the shore. The feeling multiplied as he turned to meet Thranduil's impassive face, an eyebrow raised in questioning until he followed the line of sight Glorfindel had been so engrossed in, realisation dawning in the small upturn of his mouth.

"Been snooping?" He teased, the twinkle in the frosted jade of his eyes made Glorfindel catch his breath, "It isn't like you, I would have said. But if I think about it, this isn't unlike you either."

Glorfindel blinked, "What are you doing here?" he demanded breathlessly, a hand over his heart. By this point in time, Erestor and Elcallon had already been forgotten, his mind was a clouded pond, and Thranduil's name, his face, his eyes, his presence, a ripple that had brought the world to life.

"Reminding you not to eavesdrop on private conversations," Thranduil remarked.

He seemed changed all of a sudden, Glorfindel thought. Earlier in the evening, he had seemed so unsettled, barely present in the moment and lost in his thoughts. Had something happened that had brought him back to life? Or was it a pretence he was so skilfully keeping up, one that he did not want even Glorfindel to look through? The thought of it hurt, the dark cloud that had been birthed of the bitterness from when Thranduil had let go of his hand thundered ominously.

Thranduil had decided something then, Glorfindel knew, it wasn't anything he could demand an answer to, no matter how desperate he was to understand.

Something had changed. If already Aman was taking so much from him, what else was coming? What would it make of him?

"I wasn't eavesdropping!" Glorfindel protested, managing to look scandalized. Two could play this game, he thought to himself, watching Thranduil for the cracks that would make their way into his seemingly perfect mask. Always, always, he would come undone before Glorfindel, Thranduil had always trusted him enough to.

"I wouldn't blame you," Thranduil shrugged, "Something about their tale is enigmatic. If to me, an outsider, it should appear so curious, what must it be to you, the one who has seen this all unfold?"

Glorfindel shook his head resolutely, he swiftly turned his back to the two, who had already fallen into their heavy yet companionable silence. He marched forward a few steps determinedly, tilting his head as he stared straight at Thranduil as if to prove a point. It made his friend scoff in bemusement, before he traced Glorfindel's steps indulgently, coming to stand by him.

By instinct, or perhaps, driven by his overwhelming fear of having to let go of Thranduil, Glorfindel reached to slot their fingers together. Thranduil let him have his way freely, not bothering to question him or pull away, simply watching.

Glorfindel kept his eyes down, but managed to catch a glimpse of Thranduil as he studied their intertwined fingers, the insides of their wrists pressed together, his thumb idly tracing over Glorfindel's knuckle. His expression was guarded, though he did not say a word, there was no question that his mind was wandering as Glorfindel's too was. His hands, did they burn when he touched Glorfindel's? Or did his touch quell the storm of his darkest fears, as it did for Glorfindel?

"I've been on my feet a long time," Thranduil announced, as they made their way further, narrowly avoiding the tides that seemed to almost chase after Glorfindel's footsteps. "I wish we'd go sit somewhere."

Glorfindel hummed a vague response, he guided Thranduil away from the waves, higher up until the latter made a sound of protest at having to walk even further. At the sound of his groan, Glorfindel pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. He turned around to catch Thranduil's eye, then unceremoniously seated himself cross-legged in the sand, looking up at his friend to follow suit.

Though the other wrinkled his nose in judgement for a good few minutes, he finally gave in and sunk into the cool sand of the shore, with one hand smoothening his robes. They sat quietly together, looking far away in the direction they had come from just that evening, wondering about all that had already passed in what felt like a blink of the eye.

"How are you feeling? About everything, I mean?" Thranduil asked out of the blue. When Glorfindel turned to face him, he could already tell that this one question had weighed upon him all this while; with this, he had voiced what they had so carefully been tip-toeing around.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Glorfindel smiled. He plucked their interlaced hands from where they rested on the sand and held it close against his chest.

"Not when you're going to be the talk of the town." Thranduil murmured, "It's barely a fraction that has managed to find even one person, and here you've got yourself two already."

Glorfindel noticed with a frown that Thranduil spoke of what had occurred as if it had nothing to do with him. He had avoided mentioning it all this while, and when he did, Thranduil seemed to have no intention of accepting that he had been tied into their twisted fate.

"Are you still in shock of it still?" He prodded once again, expectantly awaiting a still silent Glorfindel's reaction. 

The reborn elf shook his head, letting locks of burning gold shield his face from Thranduil's sharp eyes. He laughed softly, letting it subside into a heavy sigh that he let out before he answered in words.

"I feel sorry towards those whose fates are tied into mine." He smiled mirthlessly to himself, "That I can only strive to be that someone two people would willingly and whole-heartedly want to love.

"But at the same time, I'm overwhelmed. This is all I could have ever wanted and more."

A cruel land Aman was, Glorfindel realised belatedly, it stole what one had little by little, like the hands of a clock; but with that, it burdened one so. Love was a burden too if one wanted too much of it. Already, Glorfindel was changing, Aman would make it so that in time he lost himself wholly; and with that, he had been granted the two people he had been torn between. They loved him in different ways, with different eyes, that he knew. But they had loved him for whom they had known him to be.

Who had he been? Had he ever been deserving of that love?

And now? He was on the verge of losing himself to the faded past and the clouded future, time was a great tide and he was at its mercy, worn down and forsaken.

Was he worth it still? 

 

"Then, are you happy?" Thranduil wondered. His steady voice cut through Glorfindel's thoughts, if he had ever let his eyes fall shut, he had been roused from the hopelessness of everything. The sea stretched on far beyond, cupping the moonshine in gentle tides, the silver of the stars twinkled faintly over the dark water. The sky seemed to have melted into the ocean, the sun had set, the world burned no more. 

He thought over it for a moment, wondering how it was that he felt. Guilt and relief and joy as one, what could he make of it? All he had felt in that moment when he had known was joy; an overwhelming, selfish, pathetic joy.

"Delirious," Glorfindel confessed. "Deliriously happy."

Thranduil stiffened as soon as he heard him, the discomfort was evident, his heart had begun to hammer against his chest. Glorfindel felt too dizzy to process fear or even regret his momentary truthfulness, his head was heavy and his eyelids melting to slumber.

All he could feel was burning exhaustion, a weight in his limbs and a fire in his core, it drew out all there was of him, leaving Glorfindel dull and dimmed. For now, he was content to lose himself to it, perhaps that the other side would live this whole life for him, burning and bright once more.

He had barely let himself drift when he felt the hand in his grip pull away swiftly, Thranduil had sat up with his face to Glorfindel, his palms coming to cup his face gently. He had a determined air to him, though the pale blue of Glorfindel's wide, stupefied gaze had the effect of letting a slight uncertainty creep into his sharp features. As if to calm his nerves, he let his fingers wander, smoothing down a flickering frown on Glorfindel's mouth, thumbing lightly against the strands of gold that the air blew into his face.

At once, Glorfindel knew what was coming, he pushed for proximity, holding Thranduil's gaze. His friend's head dipped, their foreheads almost touching, and Glorfindel let his eyes flutter shut, exhaling softly.

"And you?" he whispered, "How do you feel about everything?"

Glorfindel could feel Thranduil's eyes upon him, and he smiled to himself, as the latter huffed out a laugh. "I don't want you to know that," Thranduil murmured.

"Won't you tell me anyway?" Glorfindel tilted his head to the side, blinking slowly as he savoured the sight of Thranduil so close to him, basking in the warmth of his familiarity.

"Why do you want to know?" He smirked, watching Glorfindel with the utmost focus. His hand smoothed the creases in Glorfindel's robes, settling against the small of his back, fingers drumming a jittery rhythm.

"Because I feel happy." he whispered, as if that was a great secret, "I have all I could have hoped for."

There was a furrow between Thranduil's eyebrows, but he spoke impassively, the tone was no longer playful, just flat, sounding as if he was asking a question he didn't particularly want an answer to. "Because you have Ecthelion?"

Glorfindel let out a burst of weak laughter, slumping against Thranduil.

"Not just that, silly," staring up at him, Glorfindel felt his head grow heavy, his heartbeat like a dragonfly's wings, small and desperate.  "Because I have you too." He whispered into Thranduil's shoulder, his lips melting into a smile as he mouthed the words.

For a moment, Thranduil almost leaned down, his head tilted at the perfect angle to meet Glorfindel's mouth halfway. His gaze, clear but fearful still, searched Glorfindel's intensely. The reborn elf blinked slowly, aware all of a sudden of the golden irises reflected in Thranduil's dilated pupils, feeling a cold fear crawl up his spine. Glorfindel didn't know what Thranduil wanted of him, but he knew he wanted Thranduil all for himself.

Somehow noticing the subtle change in his demeanour, Thranduil let his hands fall to the side, avoiding Glorfindel's startled face. He cleared his throat all of a sudden, straightening the collar of his robes, and finally crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm thinking of leaving tomorrow."

"Leaving?" Glorfindel echoed dumbly, caught off-guard, "Where will you go?"

"Adar says we have a place to stay over in the west," he explained, "Maybe what I need is an escape," his eyes flickered, as he looked straight at Glorfindel, and then away again. "A break from everything, I mean."

But what he had meant to say was clear to Glorfindel already. He swallowed down a lump in his throat and shrugged, nodding vaguely in seeming agreement. In Thranduil's eyes, he was burning gold, with amber eyes that blazed with spite guarded by hidden thoughts. He knew what he had done, trying to provoke guilt for what he knew was not Glorfindel's fault.

"You should," Glorfindel remarked, his lips curved upward sharply, eyes wandering in a careless sort of annoyance. Perhaps he thought he was hiding it better from Thranduil, though his blooming hurt was stark in the easy shrug of his shoulders, and in the blazing gold of his eyes, guarding a carefully hidden emotion. "Take some time out to spend with Legolas and Oropher. You've come all the way for them, haven't you?"

He laughed, smooth and natural, though his eyes lingered far away somewhere, "After you changed your mind anyway."

"Will you come with me?" Thranduil almost asked, but putting his pride first, he commented guilelessly, "Do you not want me to go?"

Glorfindel gave him a sharp look that melted quickly into one of his indulgent smiles, "I wonder what makes you say that," he chuckled, "But on the contrary, I think it would be good for you. We've all been joined by the hip the past  months or so, perhaps it would be for the better to get far away, savour the past for a while, and those who have been awaiting us."

He uttered his words in a careless sort of optimism, knowing full well that Thranduil would gauge exactly what he meant to say, and so sure that it would sting.

Thranduil looked away sharply, "I should head back then," he sighed to himself, "It might be an early start tomorrow."

Glorfindel waved him a cheerful goodbye, smiling brightly with his eyes. "Have a good journey, Thranduil." With a wicked glee, he noticed his friend dallying and declared, "There's no need to wait, someone's coming to join me."

"Very well," he said, then rose and walked past him without a word. 

 

Only when Thranduil had almost reached the cobbled path that led back to the gathering did Glorfindel's voice ring out: "Thran!" He said, making him stiffen on impulse, "I'll be waiting for you to return!"

His voice quivered as the words came and Thranduil, helpless to the worry that seized him, turned to search for his form by the shore. As always, he was ethereal. Long-limbed and strong-shouldered, his hair an impossibly bright gold, eyes glowing blue like a faraway star, his mouth was parted and teeth clenched. When he caught Thranduil's gaze upon him, he raised a hand to shield his face, gesturing at his friend to be on his way.

And finally, having chased after him so long, Thranduil turned his back to him. Taking one step, and another, and another, until he had left Glorfindel behind, this time around. 

*~*~*

Enduring the teasing for his friends all by himself was tougher than he had imagined. All the worse because he had wanted Laurë to meet Rog once again more than anything else, but his absence had made it all the more disappointing for all three. But Ecthelion knew it wasn't Glorfindel's fault, there was much weighing over him, dimming him to a mere shadow of the man he had been before night had fallen. Though it was obvious that finding his way to Glorfindel would be enbearably awkward, to witness that sharp change entirely against what impression the other had gone to make in the course of the evening, Ecthelion couldn't help the guilt swimming in his gut, and more so the worry. 

He had excused himself as soon as he could, ignoring the hoots of teasing that arose from his tipsy friends, and retraced his steps back toward the beach. Grabbing a bottle of water that had been laid down in the buffet, he sprinted toward the seashore, eyes scanning the darkness for a head of gleaming golden. 

Despite the radiance and  that Glorfindel had embodied all the way from the harbour to Elrond's house, and right up until he had strode to the dais, making up for Ecthelion's relative awkwardness; he knew deep within, past his initial apprehensions, that he was used to the quieter broodier sort of Laure. 

And with that realization, Ecthelion drew in a breath and approached Glorfindel. 

"Oh!" He chirped, looking up at Ecthelion with a half-smile that had his eyes curve into crescents. "It's you!" 

There was a flush climbing up his cheeks, and a worrying warmth floating around him as Ecthelion sank into the sand beside Glorfindel. He pressed the bottle of cold water into the curve of his arm, patting the exposed bicep absently. "For you," he said, "You haven't had anything to drink in a long while, have you?" 

Glorfindel scoffed at him, "Trust you to be the responsible one getting me water and not wine." 

Ecthelion shook his head in response, "Someone has to be the voice of reason." 

When he was done gulping half the contents of the bottle, Glorfindel turned to stare at him curiously, words dancing on the tip of his tongue. 

"You know," he piped up, "You're quieter than you used to be," 

Ecthelion tore his eyes from the waves lapping at the shore, and instead focused them upon Glorfindel's moonlit form. If he blinked, maybe there would appear mountains on the far north, and the ivory towers of a forgotten city and their legs would be dangling over the edge of a wall, and the sharp fall would have made Ecthelion gather Laurë into his arms. He moved to clench his fingers, crushing silver sand that sifted between his grip, to remind him of how the tides of time had washed over them, but yet touched the same shore.

But he did not want to close his eyes, Ecthelion realised. He was afraid that the perfection of this reality, a promise of eternity would lose itself in another dream. He was afraid to lose Laurefindil who still looked as he had, except with eyes brighter and smile sharper, who had thrown himself without thought into the folds of Ecthelion's arms.

"You remember me?" He asked instead, tilting his head, helpless to the movement of his gaze that traced the line of Glorfindel's jaw, the junction of his neck and shoulder, caressed by the pale moonshine.

Glorfindel shuffled closer towards him, their shoulders brushing, and what surrounded them was the comforting shroud of darkness and the pearly sheen of the crescent moon's light.

"I have dreamt of you," he said, and his voice was airy and gentle, "And I have searched for stories of you, and they say you weren't quiet."

Ecthelion laughed, "And you?" he asked, "What do you remember? Was I quiet?"

The smile on his face dimmed, and Ecthelion's heart leapt to his throat. Glorfindel's hand tensed ever so slightly in the grip of his fingers and Ecthelion wondered if he would mind being touched.

"Remember?" Glorfindel murmured as if he was tasting the words in his mouth, "I wish I did." he sighed. And smiling, though it did not reach his eyes, "I'm certain that my 'memories' have always been just been dreams."

Ecthelion inhaled sharply, but he didn't think Glorfindel had heard. Unthinking, he let the pad of his thumb brush over the knuckles of his soulmate's hand, Ecthelion thought he had heard Glorfindel's breath hitch at the touch, but he wasn't so sure.

"It doesn't matter." he said, "The past is gone, but we're here, and we're together. We can make new memories, and dreams too."

If Rog were here, he would have laughed about Ecthelion losing his edge every time he was around Glorfindel; and he wasn't wrong, he could not remember a time he had spoken with such love in his voice.

It made Glorfindel smile again, and this time it touched his eyes, blue and green like the sea, and as the curve of his lips dipped into his cheek, Ecthelion could have sworn there were sparks of gold in them too. He squeezed Ecthelion's fingers gently, his hands were warm, grip firm and perhaps, just a little desperate. Ecthelion wished could have pulled him into himself, held him closer, not at arm's length; but it didn't seem like the time to test the waters, or cross boundaries.

"You're still as sweet as you were," Glorfindel said. 

"Only to you."

Glorfindel laid his head against his shoulder, exhaling heavily as he did, Ecthelion hesitated momentarily before he leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his temple.

"Thank you," Glorfindel murmured, "For waiting, and for wanting me still."

Ecthelion smiled into the soft strands of golden hair, luminous, perhaps brighter than it had been the last time they had been alive. "You say it like I had a choice," he grumbled, and paused, wondering if Glorfindel would take his teasing to heart, Ecthelion did not like that he was so unsure of everything.

He felt the shaking of Glorfindel's shoulder against his chest, and almost let out a relieved sigh at how he was laughing quietly. When Glorfindel raised his head, irises sea blue with specks of silver moonlight, Ecthelion almost lost his breath once more.

"And if you did have a choice?" he murmured, "Would you have waited still?"

Ecthelion was helpless, there was no way he could lie, not when his eyes had not wandered even a single moment from Glorfindel's form, and how he had been evidently discomfited by him being more than an arm's distance away, and how all his sharp edges had become pliant at even the gentle sweep of Glorfindel's gaze over him, and how afraid he was to lose him again.

"Yes," he breathed out, "How could I not, for you?"

Glorfindel smiled again at the response, he smiled a lot this time around, Ecthelion thought absently, though every part of his consciousness melted to sweet nothing every time he did. But this time around, though he looked ethereal, there seemed to be a tinge of something mournful in the brilliance of his eyes, gentle as he always was, but somewhere weary and burdened.

Ecthelion's heart ached, at how Glorfindel at once held the glory of the burning Sun and the tragedy of the waning Moon, and at how far he was still, though nestled in Ecthelion's arms. The sigh he let out was something soft, and weightless, yet heavy, burdensome. A void of silence seemed to have erupted between them, Ecthelion hoped he stood on the same side as Glorfindel. He pressed his forehead against Ecthelion's shoulder, burning hot to the touch, breathing shallow. Ecthelion tensed, but wrapped a careful arm around Glorfindel's upper back, at a loss once again when the slighter elf burrowed into him.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, and Ecthelion did not know for what, but tentatively, he offered a gentle pat in return.

Glorfindel reached to grasp at his wrist, eyes still closed and head still against Ecthelion's shoulder, and dragged it over the back of his skull. Dumbfounded, with silver eyes wide, Ecthelion let his fingers sink into the silk of his unbound sun spun hair. His fingertips grazed against the shell of Glorfindel's ear, just barely, his skin felt warm but the ring on his helix was still metallic cold.

"I'm sorry," Glorfindel echoed and had trailed off with words Ecthelion's clouded mind, just startled back into reality, had barely missed.

"Laurë," he murmured, smoothing down his hair that emitted now a pale sheen of golden light, "You have nothing to be sorry for."

He felt Glorfindel smile against the soft linen of his robes, "Not yet," he said, voice hushed, "But I will."

Ecthelion did not know what he meant, and Glorfindel did not offer him anything else but the lingering silence, the rhythm of his breaths that he thought matched that of the tides. But he did not pull away, and that, Ecthelion felt, was a small kindness. 

Notes:

just give glorfindel one good honest kiss and he'll be alright.
(actually no he won't because. character arc.)

Chapter 9: Nine.

Summary:

When the sun rises, as the sun sets, as the sun perches on the counter-top and laughs at the clouds.
Ecthelion watches. Ecthelion loves. Ecthelion fears.
(Ecthelion looks away).

Or,

Ecthelion falls in love again. Glorfindel remains in love.
(Thranduil lingers unforgotten)

Notes:

how many years has it been at this point ahaha. i have so much of this story written out at different points in the plot but writing scenes to join everything together is such a chore ughhhh
i hope there is at least one (1) person who missed me heheh /j
ANYWAY. we're so back BABEY (maybe)

It may not last. Probably
won't last. But for a moment the whole world
comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives—
red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,
gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations
of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire.
It won't last, you don't want it to last. You 
can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop. 
It's what you've come for. It's what you'll
come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll 
        remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt
        or something you've felt that also didn't last.

--- Leaves, Lloyd Schwartz 

 

The morning after found its way to Ecthelion through an ache that spread between his eyes and the crick in his neck. The wind was harsh but joyful, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't sure whether the evening would bring another storm. 

Not that it would matter, he was staying home in any case, a rest from the prying eyes of the galore of well-wishers, he hoped it would do Glorfindel some good too. Ecthelion thought of the night before as he brushed his teeth, the heat radiating from Glorfindel as he curled into his shoulder. The fever, in Elrond's words, would be down in no time, he had prescribed ginger tea and a wet cloth over his forehead. Attributed to exhaustion, he had admonished, because Glorfindel had resolutely refused a rest when offered. Ecthelion had been sure he had seen Elcallon mutter a curse as he had dragged an even more tired Erestor home with him, Celebrían watching over with a gleeful smile as if she had planned for it. 

Which, knowing her, she might have. 

Ecthelion made his way down the stairs, not bothering to rush, he would prepare tea to drink together with Laurë and check on him in the process. By the time he had escorted the blonde with murmured apologies into the house, his eyes had already fluttered shut, and the arm slung around Ecthelion's shoulder had slackened. 

Ecthelion had been almost bashful about stripping Laurë of his overrobe but then had gotten over it with gritted teeth. In that awkward process, he had figured out that it took merely a knot to be pulled from around the waist and the high collar loosened to pull the draping garment off him. He did not want to think about how he had been recalling this simple method over and over before he fell asleep, and lesser so, why it was stuck in his head. 

Thankfully Glorfindel had not been bare-skinned beneath his robe, his undershirt was of a gauze-like fabric, leaving little to be imagined of his toned arms and chest, but it was something. The sleeping elf miraculously lay unconscious throughout this complex ordeal, saving Ecthelion's face but at the same time, making him feel incredibly guilty for invading his privacy. 

He had tucked him under the butter yellow covers, smoothened the creases on the pastel blue and pink flowers embroidered upon it, and fled just as Glorfindel shifted in his sleep, nuzzling into the blanket. He had hoped Laurë wasn't a shifty sleeper anymore, for the sake of all the creases his clothes did not deserve. The trousers were of superior quality like the rest of his wardrobe, and Ecthelion didn't want to be blamed for its destruction. 

He shook away the thoughts and glanced at the robes Glorfindel had lent him for the night's celebrations. The shimmering fabric rippled like waves in the sunlight, shifting hues from mauve to lilac and settling upon its original wine purple. He had folded it as neatly as he could have. This was the only time he would thank Egalmoth's insane fixation over the care of his extravagant clothing and those of everyone else he knew, and the times he had tutted and fussed and finally decided to teach Ecthelion how to do it the 'right way'. He smiled at the memory, but frowned again, sometime in the night, Egalmoth, who had been hauling Duilin to the dance circle had waved merrily at him. 

"Don't keep Laurë to yourself, Ehthele! Let's all catch up over lunch this week!" 

Duilin had stopped struggling in his partner's grip to add, "I hope he hasn't forgotten us,” he smiled slyly, “Last I remember, Glorfindel didn't launch into my arms." 

Egalmoth had taken the lapse in Duilin’s squirming to squeeze him around the torso, a death grip the archer could not escape. "You don't need Laurë for that," he declared fondly, "I'll throw myself at you anytime."  

Ecthelion, who hadn't yet been processing the present as well as he should have since what would come to be called the 'Grand Declaration', had nodded dumbly at them. "Of course, you can come over whenever you please." 

"Wonderful!" Egalmoth had exclaimed, beaming over Duilin's shoulder, "We'll bring Rog along for luncheon, make us that eggplant dish! You'll impress Laurefindil with it too." 

Ecthelion of the Morning, regretting all that he might have agreed to at the behest of cheery Valians who had flitted in and out about him as if they had come to congratulate his betrothal, groaned. He mussed his hair in exasperation, praying that every well-wisher who had promised a visit would be hungover from the night before. The last thing he wanted to do that day was entertaining guests who came knocking at his front door, eager to meet the reborn Balrog Slayer who had charmed them all with his presence. 

Ecthelion wandered into the kitchen thinking of the loaf of bread Rog had dropped over two days ago when he had invited himself to lunch. He was sure there was a jar of berry compote somewhere and some tea leaves in the pantry that he hadn’t emptied into a container. The kitchen was well stocked until breakfast though Ecthelion suspected he might have to make a quick trip to the market to pick up groceries for supper. Hopefully, Laurë's fever would be down by then so Ecthelion wouldn’t feel like a bad host if he left him alone. He sighed as he crossed over into the kitchen-cum-dining room. Hopefully, his guest would be well enough to eat the breakfast spread Ecthelion planned to prepare and deliver to him.

The Lord of the Fountain drew into the kitchen with the grace he had been famed for and promptly stifled a curse as his gaze ricocheted to the lean form folded over a dining chair at the window side. In the streaming light, that always hit this side of the house strongest, the person was showered in white and gold. He caught the light and reflected it somehow and Ecthelion raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. 

Thankfully, Glorfindel—it could be nobody but him—had been sitting peculiarly, cross-legged with his back draped over the sill of the ajar window, and neck angled outward; so he did not see Ecthelion jump in surprise. But at the sound of the muffled curse Ecthelion had let out, Glorfindel turned around and beamed at him, radiance rivalling that of the sun. 

Then, catching how the dark-haired elf had a hand splayed over his heart and how he exhaled roughly, Glorfindel's smiling mouth softened to a little circle of understanding. "Oh, I must have startled you." he acknowledged, "My apologies, I did not mean to." 

Ecthelion waved it off wordlessly, hoping he could convey the sentiment even as he caught his breath. Glorfindel had twisted around to face him again. And unsurprisingly, Ecthelion lost his breath yet again, heartbeats picking at the sight of the mess of Laurë's flaming hair, and how his sheer shirt dipped down to expose his collarbones. 

"Did you forget you brought me over?" Glorfindel teased, eyes alight. 

Ecthelion choked, and to avoid the brilliant blue of his eyes, diverted his attention to procuring himself a glass of water and drinking it as normally as he could. It was quite a feat since Ecthelion wasn’t praised for his morning brain. 

"Hm, you must have slept very well then." he mused, resting his chin on the heel of his palm. His eyes followed Ecthelion as he gulped down the water and set himself to heating the kettle. 

"No!" Ecthelion spoke up before he could embarrass himself even more. Too soon, it seemed, as Glorfindel's eyebrows pinched together in worry, "I mean,” he clarified hastily “I did sleep well, of course."

Then, holding firm eye contact with the hissing kettle, "But I thought you'd be upstairs, resting. I planned to bring you breakfast too, there wasn't any need to come downstairs." 

Glorfindel's expression eased over, and he stared at Ecthelion with such fondness melting through his gaze, that he had to grip at the chair for support. "Thank you," he said, painfully sincere. "You're too kind to me." 

And then, a corner of his mouth tugged upward to a roguish grin that caught Ecthelion off-guard. 

"Ah," he said, leaning forward, "Is it because of what Elrond said? That I exhausted myself?" 

Ecthelion, not quite understanding why he felt so embarrassed, nodded reluctantly. He took a step forward with the courage he seemed to be lacking entirely, to be any closer to Glorfindel made his heart even faster, made his legs turn to stone. 

"But he wasn't wrong," Ecthelion pointed out, voice steady, or perhaps too steady, "You were knocked out last night, already half-asleep by the time I got you home." 

Glorfindel grinned feebly, "Oh, that? I was just tired, by the walk?" 

Ecthelion scoffed, "What walk? I carried you home, in my arms." 

For once, Ecthelion's words had caught Glorfindel off-guard, something that seemed so impossible that he was himself startled. "Oh," he whispered, more to himself, voice so soft that Ecthelion felt himself straining his ears to listen, “Oh, I don’t think I remember.” 

A beat of silence passed between them. Somewhere far out in the street, a lone koel made to begin her song, and then paused halfway and fluttered her wings into the sky. 

"I'm so sorry," Glorfindel murmured, and Ecthelion looked into his eyes, not having realised that he had already made his way so close already. As if he had drawn into Glorfindel's orbit, circling the sun for so long, but finally crashing. 

The sun had risen high enough to cast a stream of gold over them both, but the light seemed to flow softer around Glorfindel as if bending itself around him so he could gleam. His eyes flickered gold, and Ecthelion caught his breath, just in case, but they were a warm blue again when Glorfindel sighed to himself. "How long has it been," he said, "But still, I'm having you carry me across." 

"I am so sorry," he said again, hand raised and hovering over Ecthelion's shoulder before he let it brush past the linen of his shirt and down hanging in the space between them. “I should have been careful.”

"You kept saying that," Ecthelion whispered to him, "You said that last night, and now you're saying it again." 

"I'll have to," Glorfindel told him, cryptic again. Ecthelion wondered if even Glorfindel could hear himself think, or whether his thoughts would ever be known to Ecthelion. 

"You said that too," Ecthelion intoned. 

Glorfindel tilted his head to the side, standing up with an ease that he wouldn't quite have been able to manage a lifetime ago. 

"And what did you tell me then?"

"That you have nothing to be sorry for." 

"But I do," Glorfindel whispered. 

He was a vision in the sun, looking the way he did in Ecthelion's dreams, but not so pale anymore, not so young either. Ecthelion didn’t think he had loved him with such a hunger back then, not as he did now, with the heart in his chest carved out on a platter for whatever Glorfindel would do with it. 

"And I will." They both said together, Ecthelion echoing what he had said last night, making Glorfindel laugh softly. 

Ecthelion steeled his gaze, "What for?" 

"For being your burden to carry," Glorfindel said sighing, he shook his head and spoke with a half-smile, "Or something as silly."  

He moved to walk past Ecthelion, in the direction of the kitchen. There was no denying that this had something to do with the night before, with Thranduil. Perhaps Laurë felt the guilt of having his feä tethered with two others, rather than one. It was because he had lived twice, the Maia had declared, their golden eyes had flickered like fireflies. 

Ecthelion knew he had been taken aback by the declaration, knew that he had let it show, before he could help it. Thranduil, on Glorfindel's other side, had been gaping too, his deceptive mask finally cracked. Only Glorfindel had nodded, his shoulders set back like wings, the clench of his jaw softened as he withdrew from the challenge he had levelled at the being that had come to give them the future. 

He had stepped back into the circle and bowed his head in acceptance. 

"My gratitude to the Iluvatar for granting me such an honour. It is more than I could have asked for."  

The Maia had smiled, eyes flickering again, "And more you will receive" they had said, "And more you shall become." 

The moments after had faded from their memories. It was said that the Maiar carried light in their wings that made time spiral, moments lost before the world continued to live again. By the time Ecthelion knew what was happening, they had already been led away in Glorfindel's grip. He had beamed at them, but his eyes had looked empty, too full, all at once. 

Ecthelion caught onto the sleeve on his elbow, a cloth of white gauze that billowed around his wrist, a shade over the sun. ‘Then I am the shadow cast over you, through lifetimes,’ he thought to say. But what filled the lingering silence was something pitiful.  "Don't say that." he pleaded.

Fearful suddenly, that this was what it would take Glorfindel to pull away from him. To do what Ecthelion wasn't sure he could take, in a night only he had tied himself from Laurefindil of the past to whoever had arrived from where the sun rose.  

"No?" Glorfindel asked, eyes wide and doe-like, as if he was seeking to be told a story, to be told something he could believe as if the world would pass by in a dream. 

Ecthelion shook his head, "It isn't true. Because I waited. For you, and I wanted to." 

Glorfindel grinned, he looked not even half as solemn as Ecthelion was, as if this did not mean life or death to him like it did to Ecthelion. They stood face to face, but what lay beyond them, this time, was the sun and the sea, not fire or ruins and it was Laurë who smiled. 

"Wasn't it a chore?" he teased, stepping dangerously close. 

Ecthelion let his eyes fall shut, breathing shallow, relief that had the undertones of vanilla blossom, that felt like the warmth of afternoon. "Not to me," he declared, "Never if it is you."  

Glorfindel burst into a fit of laughter, but his arms circled around Ecthelion for just a moment, the softness of his bedhead laid against his shoulder, a weight so light for what held all the thoughts he never let out. Ecthelion held him back before the weight pressed against him was gone, like a mirage. 

"Ah," Glorfindel sighed as if he was lamenting a tragedy, "Is it too soon for me to be in love already?" 

Ecthelion laughed too, "I've waited all this while, what's a little longer?" 

 

***

Weekend's lunch came after three days of visitors flooding the house. Ecthelion watched Glorfindel's marvellous shifts of personas from afar. The way he smiled with alarming genuineness at well-wishers and guests, only to let it fall the instant they were gone. It was alarming the way Glorfindel was so at ease with everything. The way that he floated about the kitchen, in that flimsy shirt Ecthelion had placed by his bedside the previous night, another one of his cardigans draped over Glorfindel's lean shoulders. It was how he had made himself at home, in Ecthelion's heart first, and in the span of sunrise, in his life too. 

It was in the way he somehow knew where to find the teapot; how his fingers grazed delicately over the porcelain cups, a handmade gift from Maeglin, with pale blue birds flitting across their luminous surface.  Staring at Glorfindel, Ecthelion's attention wandered from the bread he was toasting, his gaze drawn to the teapot in Glorfindel's careful grip, the way he pursed his lips pouring the tea, and of course, the way that the light bathed him in pale gold. In this foolishness, Ecthelion ended up toppling the pan over and burning himself. 

At once, Glorfindel wandered over by his side, tutting under his breath as he looked over Ecthelion's shoulder. 

"Not bad," he levelled at the patch of black soot over the slice of bread. 

"Thanks," Ecthelion muttered, tossing it into another plate and gesturing at Glorfindel to take it. 

The same Glorfindel, who had embodied the perfect manners the previous night and only some hours ago, wrinkled his nose distastefully at what he had been offered. "For me?" 

Ecthelion flashed him a sideways smile, "Not bad, you said?" 

In an eloquent reply, he received an elbow to the side. But Ecthelion felt far more aware of how Glorfindel didn't bother to pull away, rather choosing to rest his cheek gently over Ecthelion's shoulder. 

"Is this how guests are treated in Aman?" he demanded. 

"Tch," Ecthelion scoffed, setting another buttered slice over the pan, "Is this how guests speak to their hosts in Arda?" 

"Mmm, hosts in Arda make sure to not let their attention wander when they're playing with fire." Glorfindel reached a hand forward, and instinctively, Ecthelion held his breath, eyes widening as he tucked strands of dark hair behind his ear. 

"Last time I let my hair down by the fire, I didn’t make it out alive." he laughed softly into his palm, and helplessly, Ecthelion stared. With a Cheshire grin, Glorfindel stared back, unabashed. And that was another slice of bread burnt. 

After waving Ecthelion away from the fire like a swarm of flies, Glorfindel had taken over toasting their bread. Rather, he had relegated the task to the oven that the house’s long-time occupant had mostly neglected to use. He perched on the countertop to watch him work. 

"You haven't changed one bit," Ecthelion smiled to himself, slicing tomatoes for a vinegarette for the bread. After a companionable silence, he thought again about Glorfindel the previous night as he had smiled and charmed the guests who poked their heads through doorways 

Glorfindel groaned, he poked a toothpick to the cherry tomatoes Ecthelion had set aside and bit harshly into it. "I hope you won't think I'm the sort of prick who doesn't appreciate goodwill," he sighed, "But it's been an eventful couple of days, it's too soon to… assimilate." 

"Assimilate?" Ecthelion echoed. 

"Returning to diplomacy, keeping up appearances, saving face, smiling all the time," he listed his grievances on graceful fingers as Ecthelion paused to watch him speak, "A decade or more of living in the relic of a city, with three other people and a bunch of trees? With our only visitors being the visiting Edain bringing us supplies? I am not used to being who I was before all of them." 

"You're out of touch," Ecthelion nodded, "That's alright. You have this charm about you, Laurë, you could have a stormcloud over your head but you'd still look every part a gentleman." 

"Really?" Glorfindel teased. He leaned forward, closer to Ecthelion and his chopping board of gutted tomatoes, making his breath hitch for a moment. "Perhaps you'd weather through the worst of my moods just fine." 

Ecthelion raised his eyes to Glorfindel's, reaching a finger to poke lightly at the dimple in his cheek. "I'd like it if you let me." 

The brief silence that followed, of blue-green boring into clear grey, was broken by Glorfindel kicking his feet against the wood of the platform. He reached to cup Ecthelion's face in his palms.

"You don't know how hard you're making this for me!" He groaned. Ecthelion smiled, casting away his kitchen knife to wrap an arm around Glorfindel's torso. 

"One of these days, I'm going to lose my composure and you'll be the one dealing with the consequences." 

Ecthelion squeezed him lightly, "Gladly." 

And then awestruck, he watched as Glorfindel’s eyes darkened. Or rather, the day outside them darkened. The sunlight that was streaming so freely through the window paled had vanished behind the passing clouds. But somehow, Ecthelion thought he saw a flickering light about Glorfindel, enveloping his lean form, glimmering in his eyes. 

Fool’s gold, Ecthelion thought to himself, the way his eyes sparked gold in some moments and then returned to their usual blue-green-grey. Perhaps he was seeing things, but to Ecthelion, it seemed as if those eyes had stolen the gold of day and hidden it in their depths. 

“Ecthelion,” he said, a voice soft and pliant, pleading. Long fingers drummed against his cheek, fluttering against his temple. And he was so close to giving in. Ecthelion hadn’t thought of everything falling into place so soon.  It was easy, not even a week in and Glorfindel looked at him like he had hung the moon. He smiled so brilliantly at Ecthelion, he relished spoonfuls of the meals Ecthelion made him and threw him praises upon praises, bright eyes that wandered after him. 

It felt too good to be true. Too good and Ecthelion couldn’t help but wonder whether that left them with an uneasy peace, a home that was warm and wonderful and held together by walls of pretence. 

Perhaps it was a matter of trust, perhaps Ecthelion was not cherishing the perfection of everything that Glorfindel had brought with him. Or maybe he wanted to linger on the moments when his eyes turned gold before Glorfindel would stiffen and stumble, and then flash him that shaky smile. The softness, the suddenness, the raw and real imperfection of those fleeting moments. 

This happy fairytale felt fragile, like clinging dew drops that would disappear into the air when the sun came out, bright and burning. Ecthelion hadn’t thought about how happy it could make him, and still so afraid. 

He bit his lip, still quite startled, taking in the determined flame burning in Glorfindel’s eyes, waiting as the sunshine crept back in through the kitchen window. A column of pale gold illuminated the tile of the kitchen counter, Glorfindel’s eyes ice blue like a memory of the Helcaraxë, the tender stalks of blood-red tomatoes on the wood of Ecthelion’s chopping board. All he could do was stare, the face of a young god, blurring into that of the Maia that had shown him their fate, too bright. 

‘What more can I want?’ Ecthelion asked himself. But perhaps the question that twisted in his gut like a knife was something else. 

What more will he give me? What hands will carry it?

"You already know what I want," Glorfindel murmured, searching Ecthelion's eyes, a shower of stars, pure silver. He let his eyes fall shut, drawing in a breath and letting it out, the courage that had propelled him this far finally fading. "Tell me no," he begged, "Tell me now it's too soon. Tell me you don't see it the same way,” he drew in a shuddering breath, “See me, as you did.”

Ecthelion's grip tightened around his waist, his touch was icy, hands shaking, whether by fear or the cold, there was no telling. He cupped Ecthelion's jaw tenderly, "I'll wait." Glorfindel said, "If not now, then I'll wait until you want me."

 

Ecthelion made a sound like a sob had choked his throat, and when Glorfindel looked at him, he was gaping. Perhaps it was disbelief, maybe Glorfindel had misread every single gesture he had made, every word he had said, and now Ecthelion was stunned to silence that he had even made such a move. Or, if he was to hold onto the optimism that was fleeing his grip to the best of his abilities, Glorfindel would simply want to believe that Ecthelion was embarrassed; perhaps he had not been kissed in almost three Ages, and Glorfindel had sprung this upon him too soon.

For all the belief Glorfindel had vested in his own desirability, for good reason in his humble opinion, he had never encountered anyone who had frozen on the spot when he had said he would kiss them. He liked to think he had had experience with all sorts of people, even the most shy, but at the same time, he could have sworn that the Ecthelion from his memories had been the one to move first.

Glorfindel peered up at him, and Ecthelion stared, looking the same as he had all this while; with affection, if not love. His mouth had dropped open in a gasp, Glorfindel debated shutting it for him but decided it might not be the most romantic. The skin his palm was pressed against was warm, the light tan of Ecthelion's skin was already brightening to a cherry red that absolutely endeared him.

After at least two minutes of awkward silence, Glorfindel cleared his throat, dropped his hands down and patted his shoulder lightly. He averted his eyes, and managed a smile before it flickered and died with the complete lack of response. Silence and intense stares directed at him at once contributed wonderfully to raise Glorfindel's reserve of awkwardness from whatever dark crevice he had forced it, and so, in response, he offered Ecthelion a little laugh.

It was one that he had learnt from Erestor as the advisor had attempted to make light of when a company of dwarves had thrashed the dining pavilions on his day off; and worked surprisingly well in his current situation.

"Am I misunderstanding where we were taking this?" Glorfindel spoke up courageously. He moved further away, as much as possible with Ecthelion's arms still caged around him.

That seemed to shatter Ecthelion from whatever trance he had fallen into. "No!" he cried, wincing when he realised how loud he had spoken.

"I'm sorry," Ecthelion said, "You caught me off guard."

Glorfindel hid a smirk into his sleeve, "Ah, I see. I'll take that as a no then? To my question?"

Ecthelion's mouth parted again, the veins at his temple popped, and he seemed to be aware of himself again and cleared his throat. "No," His voice trailed off uneasily, "I don't not want... you." H e cringed as if he wanted to say more but could not physically put himself through the torture of it.

Glorfindel had never stood so close to someone as endearing as him since that time he had tried to chat up Melpomeon once, to Erestor's chagrin. "Alright."

He tapped idly at the cutting board that lay forgotten in this charade, humming a response. “I'll wait,” he decided, "I'll wait until you are sure."

Ecthelion's eyes dimmed, fading to grey again, almost disappointedly he replied with a flat “Alright.”

This time, Glorfindel could not hide his laughter, “Look at you!” he chided, "Weren't you the one who told me so clearly, that you ran to me?"

"I did!" Ecthelion said defensively, "I meant that, truly."

"Hm. You made my heart flutter back then, and now, it is as if you've recoiled into your shell again."

It made him crack a smile, eyes crinkling, "I have not, I'm just a little surprised."

"By me?" Glorfindel huffed.

"Yes."

Glorfindel choked this time, much to Ecthelion's amusement, and feigning a scowl, he butted his forehead against his chest. "By the Valar," he groaned, "You'll be the death of me."

Ecthelion ran a hand along his backbone, "Don't say their name in vain. The Valar hear you in Aman when you speak of them."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes, "Splendid." 

“But Laurë,” Ecthelion’s voice was soft, barely a breath of air against the shell of Glorfindel's ear, “I want you.” 

The reborn elf stiffened in his grip yet again, and then, making a low noise in his throat, pressed his face into Ecthelion’s chest. “You'll kill me,” he murmured, “I swear you will.” 

“I want you and it's taking a toll on me,” he laughed, “Sometimes I get too honest, like now. But other times, I'm scared.” 

“Of me?” 

“No,” Ecthelion's fingers drummed lightly against the small of Glorfindel's back, “At least not yet.

“I'm trying to be brave. I'm trying to be a natural at this. At wanting someone, at wanting someone the way I want you. It's barely been a week, Laurë,” his laugh was like a breeze, Glorfindel couldn’t read it, it was too light and it floated away.  “It's barely been a week and yet I am so,” he sighed, “I'm so— I can’t even say it without sounding insane—I’m obsessed with you. You're all I think about. I wish it could be just you and me in the whole world, but I know I can't wish it.” 

“Why not?” Glorfindel twined an arm around his neck, curious.

“Because you're more.” The world was dipped into shadow for a moment. Ecthelion blinked and the light returned. Glorfindel pressed his amusement into Ecthelion's skin, making him lose his breath, “You're more than what you are to me. You deserve to be more.” 

He felt Glorfindel sigh, and the room felt colder somehow, though the sun was bright and the afternoon was warm. “What does this all mean, Ecthelion? You're saying a lot of things. But I'm not sure you want me to know what you mean.” 

“I don’t know,” Ecthelion exhaled, “I have no idea and I need to figure this out. I need to get used to you,” he faltered and then added in a panic, “I mean, having you around, having everything I feel directed to a real person. I need to learn how to separate you from my fantasy of you. I don’t want to suffocate you with my love.” 

“Don’t be silly,” Glorfindel petted his hair, “You couldn’t suffocate me with a pillow, Thel, and I’m made to be loved,” he laughed, “I’m dying to be ‘suffocated’ by your love, you have no idea! It’s what I’ve wanted for Ages, I’ve wanted to be by your side for so long, it’s all I’ve ever known.” 

Ecthelion bit his lip, knowing that despite how honest he was trying to be, there was one thing he didn’t know how to address. His biggest insecurity, a steadily burning flame of what Ecthelion feared he would have to name jealousy, everything he wondered about where they stood— not just him and Glorfindel—but Thranduil, whose fate had swept into Ecthelion’s life. Sometimes, in Glorfindel’s presence, Ecthelion couldn’t help but get distracted, and lose himself in the delusion that it was just the two of them, that it would always be. Maybe Glorfindel knew, maybe Glorfindel thought about Thranduil just as much as Ecthelion, if not more. Maybe that’s why he never brought him up even as he talked about Elrond, Celebrían, the twins, Erestor, Elcallon, Lindir, and even Legolas, but never Thranduil. Maybe everything would fall apart when Thranduil came, maybe nothing could fall in place if he never did. 

Thranduil, who Ecthelion hadn’t even met. Thranduil, who was half of Glorrfindel’s world. Thranduil who was Ecthelion’s other half. Thranduil, who at this moment, was farther on the eastern end of Aman’s shore. Thranduil who lived in the third room of the house, the one that faced the woods, who lived in the lingering silence, who lived in Glorfindel’s heart and Ecthelion’s thoughts, on the sliver of earth between Glorfindel’s sea and Ecthelion’s storm. 

“Maybe what we need is time.” Glorfindel’s voice cut through his thoughts, “And I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. I can wait, Ethele, and I will,” he stroked Ecthelion’s cheek, “We have nothing but time and so much to do with it, we have an eternity to figure things out, to fall in love, to become ourselves.” 

Ecthelion leaned into the touch, letting his eyes fall shut. He nodded, “I know. But—” 

“No ‘but’s,” Glorfindel cut him off, “I’m being honest. I’m telling you what I want and I want you to believe me. I will wait for you, I want to wait for you, it would be my pleasure, it would be my honour. You’re all I want, Ecthelion.” 

“What about Thranduil?” something small and cold and traitorous said within him, a voice Ecthelion snuffed out a moment too late. He nuzzled into Glorfindel’s chest, not feeling courageous enough to speak honest words, and inhaled the scent of him, coconut and vanilla, and a hint of lemons, sighing. For the sake of his heart, his selfish heart, Ecthelion wished he could drown in Glorfindel, keep his eyes shut from Thranduil’s lingering presence that would become too real, too soon in the next few weeks, when Oropher and his entourage would return from their vacation house. 

Before the tides of change swept over him, over them, yet again. 

****

Notes:

thran pov next chapter fire emoji

Chapter 10: Ten.

Summary:

Something about love that is brewed in teapots and grows on the window sills.
Something about light that blinds and light that melts.
Something about silence that awakens and lulls to sleep.

Or,
Glorfindel wishes he couldn't hear the Voices
Ecthelion wishes he could see through the Fog.
Settling in and (not) figuring out.

Notes:

finally have time and i'm too attached to the plot i've built for these people, i promise i'm never giving up on this story

 

Only when it finally spoke would Glorfindel come to realise—and mourn—that no Voice had whispered to him in the sunlight when Ecthelion had been there. 

The house was a flurry of sounds, just how Glorfindel liked it. Even if it was just the sound of Ecthelion’s idle humming as he tossed a salad, Ecthelion’s sputter of embarrassment when Glorfindel edged too close, Ecthelion’s laughter, sharp and clear, Ecthelion’s voice in every possible state—in excitement, as he had raved about the taste of a salted caramel tart at the bakery on the promenade, in fond annoyance, when he spoke of Rog and Egalmoth’s antics, in the ordinary, when he brought alive a map of the seaside pathways in the dining room. He was coming alive, Glorfindel thought in awe, coming alive from his memories, in the square-shaped mug he preferred to drink his coffee from, or the way he wrinkled his nose at the taste of Celebrían’s gift of Dorwinion, even the quarters of cherry tomatoes in his morning salads, or how his fingers would press idly on the ladle like he was playing his flute. 

For two weeks, Glorfindel had found no need to leave the house: the visitors would arrive at their doorstep, be it Elrond and Celebrían, the twins with their new pet goat, or Lindir when he made Glorfindel the excuse to figure out the notations of the Fountainian flute (Ecthelion’s invention) that he was picking up. The twins brought groceries with them, courtesy of Elrond, even though Ecthelion protested the gifts, accepting them only if they agreed to stay for a meal. Conversation bubbled like juice from a lime, Ecthelion’s retelling of their memories from Gondolin, and Glorfindel catching him up first-hand on the history of Arda he had lived through. On occasion, Ecthelion would tell him about the long years he had lived in wait of Glorfindel in Aman—homing the world-weary, teaching the kids, the time he had taken up the irrigation portfolio on Turgon’s encouragement and decided his administrative abilities had dissipated with his death, how he had begun playing in the festival band, adadpting the humble lute into what he had renamed a guitar—and naturally, the conversation would become one about his friends. 

“Our friends!” Ecthelion made it a point to insist every time Glorfindel asked him to speak about them. Glorfindel still hadn’t met them, even though it had been two weeks since he had arrived, since he had peeked at them from behind Ecthelion’s shoulder, since the Declaration had bound him to Ecthelion and Thranduil; two weeks since Thranduil had broken his promise of dinner with Glorfindel and Legolas, two weeks since Thranduil left with something a little less than goodbye. 

But it wasn’t the time to think about Thranduil, Glorfindel reminded himself, even if it was impossible to adjust to his absence. But that was only natural, he argued to himself, more than a decade of being attached at the hip, months of close quarters in their yacht, would do that to anyone. It was because he missed his friend Thranduil, who had not even sent a letter, though Aman’s communications network was leagues ahead of Arda’s. It could not be that the odd squirming of his heart, the weight over it, like an anchor over shallow sea, was that of his separation from who the Valar had ordained his soulmate, though the other one was by his side.  He had little time to ruminate, after all, there was much to do—one whole room with a glorious view of the sea, flowing on until where Earendil dipped into the glowing waters, that Ecthelion had charged him with decorating as he deemed best. The informal bet he had initiated with Ecthelion, to take the responsibility of cooking every meal off his most generous host (who had to be reminded, once in a while, that this was Glorfindel’s home too now), which had a grip on his competitive streak, to mesmerize Ecthelion with his culinary prowess. 

More than that, it was the immersion in Ecthelion’s company, one that was most pleasant but still nerve-wracking; the wanting consumed him sometimes, and he knew Ecthelion could see it all too clearly. It would be at the sight of his biceps sometimes that Glorfindel would spiral into imagined sensations of the grip of Ecthelion’s arms around his waist, of those deft flautist fingers wrapped around his wrist, pinning him against the wall. Sometimes, often enough that Glorfindel had begun feeling pinpricks of embarrassment, it would be at the sight of Ecthelion’s impossibly broad shoulders, an incessant reminder that Glorfindel was leaner, lither, easily overpowered if he allowed it. He suspected it was some Valar-ordained miracle that he did not spontaneously combust each time the traitorous thoughts crept into his mind at the most mundane moments, each beat of his heart like a spark on silk, tapering into an all-consuming flame. Like when the apron (with lace-trims, a gift from Egalmoth) Ecthelion wore every time he cooked tightened around his waist, allowing Glorfindel an unhindered sight of the statuesque proportions of his body—the wide shoulders, the sharp blades of his shoulders, tapering down to a lean waist—the immaculate ribbon-bow did not endear him, so distracting was the thought of having both his hands snug over where the strings of that damned apron sat.  The only salve over his bruised ego, his beating heart, was in knowing that he had the same effect on Ecthelion, who Glorfindel gleefully realised, did a worse job than hiding it.

Those were the moments when everything in Aman really felt like paradise. When they talked without a break through the night, eyes so devotedly fixed on the other that both scarcely noticed when the moon had set in a violet sky that had lightened to a glowing lilac. When the nights got cold, they would inch closer together on the diwan, drawing the blanket thrown over its edge over their knees pressed close together, refusing to pause their conversation. In fact, if Glorfindel remembered right (he did), he had slept in his assigned room only on four nights out of fourteen; the rest had somehow ended with him curled into Ecthelion on the diwan that was too small to fit both of them. Waking up to the sight of his face softened in sleep, curling his hands into the lapels of Ecthelion’s shirt so he could fight the urge to graze them over his cheeks and forehead, carding through his dark, silky hair. On the few instances that Ecthelion woke up first, with not an inch to budge as Glorfindel forced him into the diwan’s headboard while asleep, he would spend a good ten minutes with his breath held between his teeth, his eyes scanning the sleeping elf’s face with a feverish intensity, something that was almost devotion. 

Glorfindel knew this because the intensity of that gaze would rouse him even if the sun on his face did not, and he would pretend to sleep only so he could enjoy Ecthelion’s stare, who was too quick to look away while he was awake. In those moments, a little something would bloom in Glorfindel’s belly, blossoming into a flutter of butterflies, a little voice whispering in his ear—in Ecthelion’s voice from his first morning here—he meant it when he said he was obsessed with you. 

Through lifetimes, they had edged further and further away, but lying here with shallow-breathing, sleep-warm bodies curled together in the light of the rising sun, it was an unmistakable red of the string that coiled around them, tugging them closer still, if that was possible. In one lifetime, the string had been the red hue of blood, but this time around, Glorfindel thought, as he smoothed the tail end of Ecthelion’s braid between his fingers, it had become the wisp of steam that rose from the red roiboos tea, the red rosebud that had climbed up the window sill to bloom in the kitchen, the red pulp of the cherry tomatoes that Ecthelion tossed in his salads. 

Still, it was a young love. Juvenile, of averted eyes and blushed cheeks, stutters and stumbles; a young love between two elves who had long lost count of their years. When Ecthelion’s thumb pressed just barely against the flesh of his palm, while the elf himself looked resolutely away. When Glorfindel pretended he hadn’t memorised the exact portions of milk and sugar, Ecthelion took in his coffee, but watched with a smile as he relished it, marvelling at how it was just right. The little things: Glorfindel’s luggage arriving from Elrond’s house in bits and pieces, Ecthelion’s pale blue cardigan that had made its home in Glorfindel’s drawer, the plant that had flowered for the first time only after Glorfindel’s arrival, how the light shifted on the wood panelled floor between Glorfindel and Ecthelion as they danced around each other. How they had come to know each other, so soon, beyond coffee preferences and sharing clothes, the little quirks and mannerisms: how Ecthelion’s cheeks rose seconds before he smiled, the breathless tone of his voice when he was bubbling with desire, the scowl in his voice when he complained, the deeper timbre when he spoke of friends, memories, his dreams of the past and the future. 

But what would happen when that voice shifted, as it would, before Glorfindel could read him? When all of a sudden, out of nowhere, it would become unfamiliar? An edge to his voice, wavering, for the first time, a veil over what Glorfindel was coming to learn as clear, honest, without pretence. 

 

The Voice had spoken just after Ecthelion had left for his music practice. It had been the first time that he, too, had left the house, Glorfindel’s company, in two whole weeks. 

“It’s all your fault,” he accused jokingly, a smile gracing his features, “You’ve distracted me from all my obligations, and now the music troupe threatens to kick me out if I don’t join them.” 

He had been polishing his flute, as Glorfindel laughed. It was a pretty flute, Ecthelion had carved it himself out of the white wood that grew on the eastern coast. 

“Oh, is our esteemed Lord of the Fountain suggesting, in that roundabout way of his, that he enjoys my humble company?” 

“What Fountain,” Ecthelion scoffed, “I’m scarcely a Lord of the Faucet these days.” 

“Distractions are my area of expertise, Ethele,” Glorfindel wagged a finger at him.

“Are you sure about that?” Ecthelion challenged, keeping his flute away.  

 He giggled like a child as Ecthelion tugged him forward by the ends of his shirt, down into the triangle of his parted knees. “Would you be kind enough to be honest, lord Balrog-Slayer?” Glorfinel whispered, bowing his head to butt gently at Ecthelion’s forehead. 

“You may ask your questions, my lord,” Ecthelion remarked as he closed his eyes, feeling the wayward strands of Glorfindel’s hair flutter about him like sunrays, “But it would be a waste of breath since you are sure to know the answer.” 

Glorfindel watched him, the serene smile that played like a tune upon his upturned lips, and the flute that he had tucked into its velvet-lined case. Ecthelion had an ease about him now, in sharp contrast to the bundle of nerves he had been the first day, darting eyes and fleeting expressions, so desperate to hide his love from Glorfindel. He stroked his face idly with the side of his hand, in awe of how Ecthelion’s eyelashes fluttered at the touch, at the perfect bridge of his nose, at how he trembled, oh so slightly, at the proximity. It was a marvel how perfectly content Glorfindel felt in the loose circle of Ecthelion’s arms—a circle that contained him, as he was, in this moment and not every other, present as a body with long limbs that sought to pull Ecthelion even closer, and for the first time, deep breaths, not shallow—a body, not a trick of the light. Here, as the four o'clock sun began to melt from the windowsill onto the kitchen counter in a rosy blush; here, as it spilt onto the ivory of Ecthelion’s flute; here, with the basket of nectarines and the casserole warm with the pie leftover from lunch. Here, with Ecthelion, here, as just Glorfndel. 

“Must you go?” Glorfindel whispered, against his better judgement, into the crown of Ecthelion’s head. 

For a moment, he felt terrified of being here alone, with Ecthelion’s steady presence gone, and grasped blindly at Ecthelion’s overrobe. Half afraid that the cool tiled floor would crumble into an abyss of memories, plunging him into the thoughts of Thranduil that Ecthelion’s presence had kept at bay. The resentment, the disappointment, and the guilt, at having bound them both to himself; he who could never be Laurefindil, he who scarcely felt like Glorfindel—he who was nothing but the shifting light on the faraway sea. 

Ecthelion’s arms settled upon his hips, drawing him closer into his embrace, “I’d like it if you accompanied me,” he murmured against Glorfindel’s shoulder. 

Glorfindel, in a moment of exhausted indulgence, drooped into Ecthelion’s lap, wound himself about the other elf’s body, shaking his head as he tucked it into the crook of his neck. “I’d rather stay in today. I’ll miss you, that’s all.” 

“Are you sure?” Ecthelion asked, his voice twisting into the tone of concern, something Glorfindel had since come to dread, “I wouldn’t mind, really, it’d be nice to show you around.” 

Glorfindel pulled away, smoothing his hands over Ecthelion’s shoulders, tidying the creases in his robes that had come from his sudden bout of clinginess. He flashed Ecthelion a smile, chiding himself internally about being so childish, burdening him with a worry that had no real cause or reason. “Yes, Thel, I’m sure. Don’t worry about me.” 

“What if you get bored sitting at home?” 

“I can entertain myself, thank you very much,” Glorfindel leaned in to press a feather-soft kiss against his cheek, then untangled himself from the mess of limbs from their sudden embrace. He led Ecthelion to the doorway with a loose grip around his wrist, trying to look away from the concern that was probably brewing in Ecthelion’s mind, reflected in the reappearance of that tiny furrow between his brows, the neat square of his jaw when he gritted his teeth. 

It was frustrating enough to know that he’d spoken without thinking, admitted to wanting Ecthelion by his side, and once again, asking too much of him; too much that Ecthelion would give away all too willingly. It was worse to want so much, Glorfindel mused, worse than being a burden, even; or maybe it was the wanting that made him such a burden. Ecthelion’s eyes on him, Ecthelion’s presence by his side, Ecthelion’s fond looks and soft smile, Ecthelion’s love, Ecthelion’s time, Ecthelion himself. To fill his days and nights with Ecthelion, like a charm against the loneliness he had feared before their boat had docked on the golden shores, to ward off the thoughts of Thranduil who had let him go. 

Ecthelion followed him wordlessly, perhaps mulling over what he would say as a goodbye, his eyes tracing the shadows that wandered in place of the evening sunlight on the tiled floor. Glorfindel knew what he was thinking, though he refused to accept why it was so, about how these shifts of sun and shadow were something Glorfindel had brought into this house, how it was just another thing about him that had no explanation. Ecthelion passed his flute case from one hand to another, wondering if this lingering silence was of his doing, if Glorfindel had more to hide than he had the courage to question. 

Glorfindel waited for Ecthelion to wear his shoes, his hip resting against the wall. His eyes, he knew, were shifting, like the light, and he willed himself to be pleasant, be bright. When he raised his gaze to meet Ecthelion’s, his irises were a bright sky blue. 

“Quit thinking so much about me,” he scolded lightheartedly, a smile on his face, “Three hours alone is no challenge for a reborn elf, you know.” 

Ecthelion’s frown melted into a smile, hopelessly fond, and he reached for Glorfindel with a newfound confidence. He wound his hand around Glorfindel’s arm, dragging him forward into his chest, his cheeks brightening as the shorter elf stared unabashedly, circling his arms loosely about Ecthelion’s shoulders. 

“I fear you’ve issued that warning too late, Laurë,” he murmured, leaning forward to press his lips gently against Glorfindel’s forehead. Ecthelion raised his chin with his thumb, laying butterfly kisses on both cheeks that glowed as Glorfindel’s face split into a grin. 

He drew away without warning, and the evening sunlight, which seemed to have broken through the half of the house that faced the shadow, followed him to the door. As he stepped out into the evening, Ecthelion raised a hand in goodbye, “I hope you’ll forgive me for the next three hours I spend thinking about you!” 

Glorfindel laughed, a rich, clear hue in his baritone, “Think of me, if you must,” he called out, “But I’d better not catch you worrying!” 

  ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

The sun began melting into the horizon in what felt like mere moments after Ecthelion had left. Glorfindel rose from the armchair he’d curled up in and wandered barefoot through the dying splatters of orange in the room rapidly being swallowed by the violet evening. He moved through the living room, turning on the many lamps spread over table surfaces, standing guard over the sofa and by the bookshelf, which in this Valar-blessed land did not need candles, only orbs of light that glowed as bright or dim as one preferred. 

The East that he had come from, for the ‘Other’ Side was the West, Glorfindel concluded, had truly been forsaken by the Valar even if they did not admit it. In a world full of beasts and wargs and orcs, Glorfindel and his warriors had relied on oil lanterns and wooden torches to brave the night, and even then, their meagre sources of light could blaze and burn against them. The elves had found magical alternatives, Glorfindel’s own hair, that fascinated Elrond and Elros on night watches and expeditions, was one. There was, of course, no denying the sharpness of elven vision even in darkness, while the dwarves were accustomed to living in their stone halls, tinkering with gas lanterns that had since passed to the Men. 

Nothing could beat the convenience of the lights in Valinor, or the safety in their usage, and Glorfindel, as a lover of the light, had been fascinated when Ecthelion had meticulously taught him how to ‘switch’ on every light source in the house. Thankfully for Ecthelion, two weeks had dulled Glorfindel’s fascination, and the rooms had returned to their usual levels of brightness, with only one or two of the brighter lamps glowing at a time. 

Now alone, as Glorfindel indulged himself with the glow of a third lamp in the house, he wondered if the lights were like this where Thranduil was. In comparison, the Woodland King, like most of his kin, preferred starlight to sunlight; his Highness, in particular, preferred gold to silver, down to his accessories. As youngsters, they had often argued while sharing jewellery, Thranduil staunchly refusing Glorfindel’s gold tone accessories to the point that it had become somewhat of a game to silently hook golden earcuffs over his ears. 

On the sixth night of their journey, Glorfindel had realised that his hair had begun glowing brighter the closer they got to the Blessed Land. For the first few days, it had become a joke for the four travelling elves, even drawing Erestor (who enjoyed silly jokes at Glorfindel’s expense) into the conversation. At night, however, the glowing hair was a different sort of headache. Glorfindel smiled as he was reminded of how Thranduil, who shared chambers with him so Lord Celeborn and a lonesome Erestor could have rooms to themselves, had approached the situation. His heart raced, for just a moment, before Glorfindel willed it to calm down, as he thought of how Thranduil had wordlessly come to sit behind him, chest pressing against his back, winding his hand gently through his hair. It had been a delicate touch, as if he were trying to tame fireflies or hold a sunbeam, as he had spun a ribbon of glowing hair around his fingers, his mouth parted in awe. He had drawn Glorfindel closer to him that night—impossibly close, even for them—hooking his chin over his shoulder, murmured against the air that trembled between his mouth and the nape of Glorfindel’s neck. He had asked if Glorfindel would leave it loose, just for that night, promising to brush and braid it the next morning. 

It was not new for Thranduil and Glorfindel, who had grown up together, in chambers across from each other for the first few centuries of their lives, their tents in the First War too pitched close enough for the banners of two separate battalions, to braid each other’s hair, or brush it. But that night, Thranduil had curled up around him, his nose pressed into the crown of Glorfindel’s head, the mane of flowing golden that was him , his namesake, that which bound him to a life before this one, to the life that they journeyed towards. Glorfindel had drifted to sleep only in the early hours of daylight, his heart racing, only one thought echoing through his mind, no matter how many times he begged it to cease.

Like lovers, the voice had taunted (or had it been him, half asleep), almost like lovers, both of you, like how the shore cradles the wandering sea. 

Where was Thranduil now? What did the lights look like on the East? What were the trees like? 

Ecthelion’s flute had been crafted from the whitewood of the East, a wood they said carried the voices of minstrels who had once sung on that shore, creating a haunting hum of a melody. Glorfindel had sat with the thought of the eastern coast, imagining white-gold wood of the vacation house where Thranduil was staying, maybe a grove of trees, like the one that awaited him outside this house. He wondered if Thranduil knew about the whitewood trees and their haunting hum. Whether Thranduil watched how the waves lapped at the other side of the shore, was it green or blue? Did the waves remind him of Glorfindel, of their time on the ship? 

Had he searched in that methodical manner of his for a letterbox? Had he asked Legolas for parchment, ink, and a quill? Would he ever write to Glorfindel? 

Would he ever tell Glorfindel how it felt to be bound to him in the ways of this land? Did he resent Glorfindel for being his soulmate, robbing his afterlife of its freedom? Did he wish to drift far through the woodlands with the humming whitewood trees, to forget Glorfindel and what he would put him through?

And what if it was Ecthelion he resented instead? Glorfindel startled at the thought, glancing about him as if it had been spoken aloud by someone else. What if Thranduil’s feä had blazed in that moment when the vision of Glorfindel had emerged before his eyes? What if the grip of his fingers on Glorfindel’s shoulders when he had stepped forward and announced to the Valar and their people that he had seen two had been but a feeble attempt to keep him, for a moment, to himself? Would he return to Glorfindel and fight Ecthelion for him? 

“When he returns?” Glorfindel scoffed, his voice sharp against his throat as he spoke, “Who says anything about his return?” 

He shook his head, hoping it would disperse his thoughts, disperse whatever it was that made him speak to a voice that lived only in his head. What would anyone say if they heard him arguing with a silent room of golden lights? What would Ecthelion say?

He will return and find you changed , the Voice spoke again, as if mocking his efforts. 

Glorfindel inhaled deeply, his fingers clawing at the plush of the armchair. He willed the Voice to silence, willed away the traitorous trickle of thoughts that were finding their way to a growing stream, down a cave that was part resentment, part hope, emotions that were not meant to follow him to the Other Side. 

 “I am changed,” Glorfindel said under his breath, “I am loved, I am happy, I am content. I have found all that I longed for.”

You are more , it spoke, echoing that refrain. More shall you want and more shall you become. He shall return and find you waiting, he shall return and know you want him . 

“I don’t,” Glorfindel said, “I won’t bind him to myself. I set him free for the life he wants. I have all that I have longed for.” His voice took on an edge of desperation, an anchor over shallow waters sinking into the seabed like an arrow, “I have enough, I won’t ask for more.” 

He burrowed into the plush of the cushion on the armchair, like a coward, trying to find his way out of his thoughts. But it was a misstep, for the Voice dragged him through the fabric of reality into the loom of dreams.  He opened his eyes and found them golden, gleaming, godly. He startled away from who he was becoming: a being born of swallowed light. The shining sun was a burning sun. A sun that caught in its orbit the earth and the soaring sky, a sun with teeth that swallowed everything into shadow. Here, a sea of light like a mirage, and here, he, burning and becoming, craving and carved out of two halves of a broken mirror. Here he was looking inwards, at a terrible creature that rose from the lights and feasted on whole hearts, while outwards, he was an anchor cast over shallow waters, swimming silt. 

The Voice had gone quiet. But its silence surrounded Glorfindel, louder than anything else it could have said. It left him with the haunting knowledge that the Voice was his, though not his, perhaps a phantom, or worse, a vision of what he was to become. He thought of the Maiar whose voice had echoed through his ears—how he had felt it familiar, though unheard—their eyes had become his, and their voice had been speaking to him, in words spoken to oneself. Hadn’t they echoed these same words? Had they not become ripples, becoming the future that they had made his, while he sat bound in the centre as the water flowed around him, flowed from him, helpless and ignorant? 

You are made of more , it had said, They had said, and now he said to the silence, and so, you are. 

“And more shall you become,” Glorfindel murmured, tasting the words on his tongue, like something touched by lightning, singed. One soul across two lifetimes would mean one soulmate per lifetime, by pure logic, and yet he did not know what it meant that he would become ‘more’. Had he not lived a life in the memory of Laurefindil of the Golden Flower, of Gondolin, even as he had grown up as Glorfindel, ward of the High King Gil-Galad, sworn to Elrond Pheredil? What was ‘more’ and where inside him did it live? Was it the gold of his eyes, like the sand of dreams, cast over his usual blue? Was it the way the light had begun to bend around him, as if shrinking away from the light he cast about himself? 

Was ‘more’ the vision of the Maiar, like a halo turned the wrong way? Was ‘more’ a monster he could become as he took ‘more’ of what he wanted? What of his soulmates then, across two lifetimes, one who looked at him like he was the shining sun and the other who looked away, to the night, obstinate for the peace the rising sun had promised? 

The Voice did not need to answer him because he knew it for himself. Perhaps he had become ‘more’ when the first light of Aman had touched his face, or perhaps, it had been when Ecthelion’s two hands had touched the fabric of his robes, maybe it was when the Maiar had gazed upon him, or when he had seen the vision from their eyes, or even when he had stepped forward, through the tunnel of silence, and had become the light that spoke back. Perhaps he had been ‘more’ the moment he had dissolved to ashes and the Iluvatar had remade his form in light. Perhaps he had become ‘more’ before his eyes had opened, before his name had been bestowed upon him; perhaps he had become ‘more’ in the river that flowed between the deathless sky and the life on earth. Perhaps, Glorfindel was that river himself, perhaps the river was ‘more’. 

In a world where everyone was only one self, one soul, through one single thread of life drawn into the loom of this world, what would it mean to be more? He had been the river, flowing to the sea, yet he had been the sea, all along. But the river was more; more than the sea it longed for, more than the earth that had held it—and the river was neither sea nor earth. Where the sea met the shore, the river was a river. Here, in the silence and in the light, Glorfindel was the river, and the river ran along a lonely path. 

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

“Oh, you’re back early,” Glorfindel mumbled as he rose from the armchair. In the dim gold of the lying room, he was almost glowing bronze, like ancient treasure, like the setting sun. 

“It’s been a good two hours,” Ecthelion replied, his voice mingling with the gurgling faucet that spewed the water with which he washed his hands. “The others asked if I would join them for dinner. We used to do that sometimes, but I got the food to go, so you could try some with me.” 

He knew he was speaking to a sleep-warm Glorfindel of garbled thoughts, but even so, it was nice to address a person rather than the marked absence of two. Even if the other one had vanished. Even if the other one watched them through the doorway, an apparition born of Ecthelion’s guilt, his envy. 

“I thought it’d be a nice change, since we’ve only been eating at home for the past weeks,” he deposited each paper bag on the countertop as if revealing the spoils of a hunt. “Chicken skewers, for one, from this place Rog swears by,” he went on, “This one mushroom potpie, though it might need a reheating to melt the cheese,” by the time the third package of fried bread and toffee sauce had been announced, Glorfindel had floated over to him. 

Two arms restrained the movements of his upper arms, squeezing for just a moment, before they drifted down to envelope his waist, accompanied by warm cheeks and a warmer forehead that pressed into the juncture of his neck. 

His body’s natural reaction to Glorfindel—a giddy smile and the sudden flutter of butterflies in his stomach—began as usual, but the ensuing smile paused as the worrying warmth of the shorter elf’s skin radiated through his body. 

“Laurë?” he called out, turning to press their foreheads together for a moment until he felt Glorfindel smile against his shoulder, “Are you feeling sick?” 

“Mmmh,” came the reply, “Just tired.” 

“Really?” Ecthelion turned around to face him, raising his hand to cradle his cheek, unable to fight off a smile as Glorfindel leaned into the caress. “You’re heating up.”

“That’ll be your fault,” Glorfindel cracked an eye open, attempting a wink. Ecthelion shook his head disapprovingly, to which Glorfindel slumped against him, still smiling, but his body weight on unsteady feet. 

“You’re worrying me,” he murmured against the crown of his golden head, “I know you said I mustn’t, but I fear you’re leaving me with no other choice.” 

Glorfindel groaned, eliciting laughter from Ecthelion. “I had a strange dream,” he confessed, “Maybe a vision of some kind, considering the effect it is having on me.” 

“Does this happen often?” Ecthelion’s hands were rubbing circles on his back now, seemingly without his knowledge. 

“It used to, back in Arda, before battles and the like,” he said, “But it’s happened only once recently, while we were still at sea.” 

Ecthelion hummed, “Do you think some good food and sleep would help?” 

“Oh, but I’m feeling better already!” Glorfindel raised playful blue-green eyes to meet Ecthelion’s, the tips of their noses almost touching. On instinct, Ecthelion pressed their foreheads together again to find that his skin was no longer so warm. Realising the proximity of their positions—how Ecthelion had his arms looped around Glorfindel’s waist, the blonde’s body weight leaning over Ecthelion, whose hip rested against the kitchen counter, not to mention how close their faces, their lips, were—it was now Ecthelion’s turn to heat up, embarrassed. 

He averted his eyes, making Glorfindel snicker, carefully extracting his arms from that shapely torso, twisting around to inspect the food he had brought back. 

“I see,” he muttered, and then, hoping to ignore the flush that spread from the tips of his ears down to his cheeks and neck, spoke louder, “If you feel up to it, you can go set the table while I reheat dinner.” 

Glorfindel, who had not been kind enough to free Ecthelion from the grasp he had over his robes, squeezed him one final time before he dropped his arms and sauntered off to gather the place mats, humming to himself. Though he’d made sure for himself that Glorfindel’s feverish warmth had since cooled down, Ecthelion could not help feeling uneasy as he deposited the potpie inside the oven.

It was strange, he mused, how Glorfindel managed to distract him from any concerns, questions, anything that would let him pry deeper beyond the bright, cheery exterior he reflected. Glorfindel, this time around, was a mirror, too-perfect, almost cut from the fabrics of Ecthelion’s hopes and dreams and musings of his long-lost lover. At times, in these past two weeks, he’d found himself watching Glorfindel beyond just the longing stares and fond looks; he hadn’t quite known what he was looking for. Perhaps he had been trying to look through the opacity of his reflection, trying to find cracks in the mirror itself. Had there been a single moment where Glorfindel had let his walls down? All this while, Ecthelion had been falling deeper into the abyss that was his love for Laurë; it was inescapable, it had always been inescapable, that he had known. Despite that, he found it hard to trust this vision of Glorfindel, half afraid he could disappear in quieter moments, leaving Ecthelion with nothing but the shadow of hope he had cast over the light of reality. Somewhere, deep in that crevice of his mind where he would find, now and then, often enough, to his surprise, stray memories of Thranduil hidden away, he had begun to imagine that the answer to the riddle that was Glorfindel; Glorfindel from beyond the Sea, Glorfindel who had set sail, Glorfindel with the golden eyes, Glorfindel who stared back at the strange Maiar. Glorfindel of three voices, of three selves, Glorfindel of sun and sea and shadow, Glorfindel of secrets. 

There he was again, smoothing down the tablecloth with his mouth set in a soft scowl that Ecthelion idly imagined running his thumb over. The light of the straw lamp, shaped oblong, like someone’s (Ecthelion’s) fuzzy concept of a dolphin, bathed him in a shower of gold, as all lights did. The world around him was resigned to shades of caramel and brown, of the table and the light boring through the holes of lace trimmings in the tablecloth, while the light favoured the golden lord. It illuminated his delicate features, pooled over his cupid’s bow and slid down the sharp line of his nose, resting just a moment on its tip, before it moved to caress the sculpt of his cheeks, his jaw, and settle in the crevice of his collarbones. It brought alive the swirling blue-green of his eyes, led Ecthelion to imagine a grey storm brewing in their depths, before it faded into the widening blot of his pupils as Glorfindel caught his eyes, raised his eyebrows in question.  

Ecthelion shook his head, dropping his eyes to the skewers he was supposed to be plating, realising that the light too was an armour. A trick of the light, his golden heart and gilded smile, it was blinding, blinded eyes to the storm brewing in the sea. He watched Glorfindel with the sinking realisation that he could see only what he was shown, one half of a whole, Glorfindel was a trick of the light; he snared it over his fingers like strings, like a web he drew around, a veil he drew over, a gilded cage that held him. 

But in Thranduil’s presence, the light wasn't quite so blinding around Glorfindel, as if drawn into the deep canopies of treetops, streaming through gaps in the leaves, it was a light that was woven into shadows. Light that illuminated, light that gave the eyes a face to see him as he was. The face of Glorfindel, who drifted to sleep in what seemed like seconds, as his gilded form that usually floated two inches above the air sank into the soft down of pillows, his smile falling with the same ease that it rose with. The moments when the light he radiated became a burden he carried, a halo heavy over his brow, his magnanimous destiny yet another chain he dragged with every flighty step. 

A mirage in the desert heat, Glorfindel, who was bright-eyed, feverish, and exhausted. Glorfindel, who had hidden himself away from Ecthelion since the first night, when he had chanced upon him, had sighted Thranduil’s shadow retreating, not far ahead. Glorfindel, whom Ecthelion sighted by chance, on the days he woke up first or on the nights he slept last; Glorfindel, who was more than he said he was, more than he appeared to be, more than he wanted, more than mirage, more than the shadow, more than the light. 

That was the Glorfindel, whom Thranduil saw, Thranduil knew, Thranduil loved; Glorfindel, whom Thranduil strayed from, turned his back on, belonged with. Thranduil, who was the key to the other half of Glorfindel, Thranduil, who was the other half to Ecthelion, Thranduil, who lived every moment between Ecthelion and Glorfindel, as shadow and as memory, as dread and as longing, as envy and as greed. 

Tonight, Ecthelion could not bear to speak words that would only be questions left unanswered. Tonight, Glorfindel kept his eyes on his plate, weighed down by the light, weighed down by the anchor of half-emptiness, heavy over his heart, weighed down by his destiny to become more. 

Tonight, Thranduil lingered in the silence. Tonight, Thranduil was the strait of silence that stood between the flood of words. The unanswered question of Thranduil, the unspoken name of Thranduil, the unforgotten memory of Thranduil. 

(A chasm broke through the rhythm of Ecthelion’s beating heart, a melody spoken in Laurë’s lilting hum, a silence that longed for completion, a name that was the answer. Thranduil. For a moment, the emptiness of the chair across him stared back at him with jade eyes, emerging from a veil of silver hair like gossamer. Ecthelion blinked and he was gone, the Elvenking, a vision like sunlight through the snow, a vision that melted into the ache, a kind of emptiness resounding through his pulse.)

 

Notes:

almost 7k words, i really love these guys so much. thran pov soon.........(sorry i lied last time)
pssst do you see where i'm going with this romance? might be a tad bit unpopular but it'll be all worth it when i adapt this story into a novel lol

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Begin Again. And Again.