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The ship came from the West, unsummoned and unlooked for, when no one expected it.
A messenger from the farthest towers rushed to the King, and told him of its arrival: a ship not of Númenor, or of fellow elves of Middle-Earth, but a swan-ship, silvery-pale and elegant, with sails of purest white. Gil-galad could only rush to the harbour, Elrond at his heels, no time to gather his court for a proper greeting.
There stood a figure at the prow, clad in greens and golds. The wind wove its fingers through his hair, letting it fly joyously like spun sunshine. He came alone, his swan-boat small, an arrow through the waves until he reached the docks and came to rest beside them.
He stepped from the ship, straight and tall, and gazed up at the gathered crowd.
“Hail and well met!” he called.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
Gil-galad stepped forward, running a hand through his hair, tousling what Elrond had carefully braided earlier, and folded his arms. “Who are you, and what brings you to the shores of Lindon?”
“That depends who is asking, Lord,” said the newcomer. He was tall, tall in a way that reminded Elrond of those few lords of old he’d met, and he practically shone. Elrond remembered seeing, from afar, the veiled presence of Ëonwë, bright and blinding… could this stranger be one of the Ainur? He looked too elven for that, but then again, they had seen one come clad in elvenhame once, and Gil-galad had turned him away, distrustful.
“Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor!” Gil-galad announced, before Elrond could do it for him and thus rendering his presence as herald completely superfluous. He did this often. The stranger looked up, eyes wide in surprise.
“Things have, indeed, changed,” he said. “By your hair I assume you are one of the line of Finarfin?”
“I gave my name, now give us yours, stranger!” Gil-galad answered. The stranger nodded, and bowed deeply.
“Forgive my lack of etiquette, Sire,” he said, “I am Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, once of the Hidden City of Gondolin.”
There had been murmurs in the crowd, but now utter silence fell. Gil-galad’s fist clenched, and not even Elrond’s touch to his shoulder could loosen his tension.
“How does a dead elf return to these shores?” he asked, his voice icy with suspicion.
“If the Valar so will it, he might,” the elf claiming to be Glorfindel said.
“Do you bear gifts?” Gil-galad asked with a sneer, and some in the crowd laughed at the memory. Glorfindel shook his head.
“I bear only a warning, from the Powers themselves: Sauron Gorthaur returns, and his shadow will spread far and fast if you are not prepared. All that is good that remains in Middle-Earth would fall to ruin.”
The silence that now fell was tinged with fear. Elrond could feel the others around them huddle closer, as if the shadows were lengthening, reaching their claws for them, this very instant.
Gil-galad ran a hand down his face, still staring down at the stranger. Elrond could not sense any malice from him, but malice could easily be hidden under guile and fair guise.
“Then I would speak with you, Lord Glorfindel,” he said. “Come.”
Erestor was nothing if not a hypocrite, always demanding his personal spaces be rigorously respected, and then simply barging into the King’s cabinet whenever he felt like it.
“Sire, I have reviewed the library archival budget for September and I think–”
He stopped dead, and his notes slipped from his hands, scattering, fluttering to the floor around him like snowfall. He had the look of a deer cornered.
Glorfindel, for his part, stared back, his expression raw and tender as fresh bruises, and yet unfathomable. He had turned at Erestor’s entrance, and was now completely still, a hand half-raised.
They stared at each other, the moment drawn out like a single long thread of time, everything else around them gone. It brought to mind the tale of Thingol and Melian, stood long in the wood, trapped in the embrace of each other’s gaze, but this was different. This was rediscovery.
Glorfindel tried for the most tentative of smiles. “It seems I make you drop your notes every time we meet,” he murmured. Erestor finally moved, shaking his head, stumbling back against the doorframe.
“This… this cannot be…”
Glorfindel took a step forward, concern writ large on his handsome face, but Erestor held out his hand, stopping him dead. His gaze had suddenly gone from shock to cold fury.
“Don’t come near!” he spat, tone harsh even as his voice shook. “You are some wraith, some trick of the mind! This cannot be!”
“Erestor…” Glorfindel said, and his voice cracked as he let his hand fall back to his side. Erestor shook his head furiously.
“No, no, this is some illusion of the Enemy, some madness I’ve been struck with, this cannot be–”
He shrank in on himself, hands clutched to his chest, head dipping low, curtained by his raven hair.
“Erestor…” Elrond tried now, placing a cautious hand on his friend’s shoulder. When Elrond leaned closer, enough to see his face, he was shocked to see tears – he’d never seen them from Erestor before, an elf so stoic and distant he was likened to a statue.
“I suppose this vouches for the truth of your tale better than anything else,” Gil-galad said gently. “Erestor, your eyes do not deceive you: this is Lord Glorfindel. The Valar have sent him with a message, and to aid us.”
Erestor looked up, his gaze falling on Glorfindel again. He straightened, stepped forward, and, as if drawn like a magnet, Glorfindel did as well, until there was barely any distance between them. Erestor reached up with a trembling hand, his fingertips barely alighting on Glorfindel’s cheek, his gaze now darting across the other’s face, as if devouring every feature.
“I’d finally stopped dreaming of it,” he said, barely above a whisper, clearly not meant for the ears of the other two in the room, “and then they send you back to me. They are fickle indeed.”
It was Glorfindel’s turn to lift his hand. Gently, as if soothing a startled animal, Glorfindel took Erestor’s pale hand in his, and slowly pressed the knuckles to his lips, eyes slipping closed.
“The only solace I had was that you still lived,” he said. Erestor let out a breath, his eyes tightly shut.
“You were dead,” he said, “I saw you fall.”
“And yet, here I stand,” Glorfindel replied. He pressed Erestor’s hand to his chest, above his heart, and Erestor let out a soft, broken sound.
Elrond returned to the King’s side, wiping away tears of his own. To see two lovers reunited, after so many centuries apart, and not in the embrace of death, was a sight that verged on holy. Gil-galad looked at him, squeezed his arm with gentle comfort and a soft smile.
He then turned back to the two and cleared his throat.
“So this is Glorfindel of Gondolin?” he asked. Erestor nodded.
“One generally tends to recognise one’s husband, I suppose,” he mumbled, and there was a flush of pink on his cheeks.
Gil-galad sat back in his chair, fingers steepled and a look of mischief on his face. “Then I would advise you to take some time off, Erestor. To reacquaint yourselves.”
Glorfindel frowned. “Sire, the Shadow lengthens, Middle-Earth sits on the brink of great danger.”
“And we shall deal with it,” Gil-galad said with steely gaze, a relic of the War of Wrath and the young king coming into his own. “The Shadow will not find us unarmed and unprepared.” His gaze then softened. “But this Middle-Earth is no Beleriand, it is new to you, and you have journeyed far, my Lord. Once we have discussed it and you have given me your counsel, see fit to do as you please.”
The news Glorfindel had brought with him were dire indeed. Erestor knew full well that his mind should be clouded with fear because of it, and yet… he could not summon it. Not when Glorfindel was here, returned, golden and resplendent as he always was and yet greater still.
Erestor had never been given to great displays of affection. They did not come to him naturally, and when they did they were stilted. And yet Glorfindel had known, always known, how deep Erestor’s love for him ran, and he saw it still, even after his death. Erestor could not stop gazing at him in wonder, relearning every beloved detail.
“You have changed so little,” he said, taking a lock of Glorfindel’s silken hair and twirling it around his fingers as he used to, “and yet so much.”
“I could say the same for you,” Glorfindel murmured. “As beautiful as the day I met you, and yet…”
“The world has made me weary,” Erestor said heavily. “Even this moment of peace, brief as we now know it to be, is hollow. If it is as you say, we must prepare for war, and it lies heavy on my heart.”
Glorfindel reached for him then, still tentative, as if Erestor would vanish if he laid hands on him. “We have seen war before,” he said, voice weary.
“And it took you from me,” Erestor said bitterly, stepping away.
“Forgive me, beloved, I…”
Erestor shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive, nothing at all. I made peace with it long ago. And I lived.”
Erestor could sense the hesitation in Glorfindel’s touch when those strong arms embraced him, held him close. In a fit of desperation Erestor pulled him in tighter, as tightly as he could, almost painful. Glorfindel was here, he was tangible, made flesh again, and on these Eastern shores with him. When he reached up and pressed their lips together for the first time in centuries, there was hunger there, years upon years of longing, and grief, and the determination to live.
Glorfindel made a soft noise into the kiss, matching the hunger, the relief, the joy at their reunion. And though the Shadow loomed, for a moment neither cared.
“Are we still wed?” Erestor said when they parted, frowning.
“In my heart we always have been,” Glorfindel said.
“Then perhaps it should be renewed,” Erestor said, and with heat in his gaze, he led Glorfindel back into the palace.