Before going downstairs to dinner, Glorfindel paused before the mirror above the washstand and examined his reflection. He had changed into a simple grey robe and had carefully arranged his hair in one of Gondolin’s more intricate styles, braiding sides and crown while leaving a loose fall of hair down the back.

Unbidden, he suddenly recalled that this was how he had been wearing it on the day he had died. The thought made him feel strange, as though he walked in two worlds simultaneously, and he shivered involuntarily. His image looked back at him with an air of assurance and poise the bore no resemblance to the uncertainty within, and received an ironic smile before he left the room and made his way downstairs to the verandah that ran along the sea-facing side of Master Edhelûr’s house.

Several future Númenóreans, some of whom were known to him from the journey down to Forlond, were on the lawn, looking ill-at-ease in the unfamiliar surroundings. He noticed that one of them was standing off to the side, Laslech sitting beside him, firmly leashed. Glorfindel doubted the dog needed constraint; she looked too confused and frightened to consider running away.

He had begun to realise, with a little help from Gil-galad, that people really seemed to welcome it when he spoke to them first and so, taking the habitual deep breath and resisting the urge to mutter an excuse and head back indoors now that he was in the company of near-strangers, he went over and crouched down to pat the dog.

Smiling up at the boy who had her in his charge, he said, “So, you sail tomorrow? Have they told you how long it will take to get there? I have heard it takes almost two weeks to reach Valinor…”

~*~*~*~*~