Part 2

Two weeks after the sons of the Lord of the valley rode out to hunt orc with the northern remnant of the survivors of Númenor, unexpected winter guests arrived at the crossing over the Bruinen. A party from the traveling company usually led by Gildor Inglorion arrived, seeking a warm hearth and the companionship of their kindred during the height of the inclement weather.

These were those members of the company less eager for battle and risk, for, so they said, Gildor himself, plus those of warrior skill amongst them, had joined themselves with the sons of Elrond of Imladris and the Dúnedain of the North, in an attempt to break and disperse a large and worrisomely well-organized orc tribe which was raiding the settlements of the Dúnedain more or less at will.

Lord Elrond bade them welcome, offered all the amenities of the Last Homely House, and said quietly to Glorfindel, “It begins.”

To the eyebrow raised in inquiry, he shook his head. Unlike Galadriel he had no mirror to aid his inborn gift, nor did he wish for one. He believed his knowledge to be an ability guided by the Valar, and preferred it to unfold in accordance with their will and wisdom.

Sometimes his foresight was crystal clear and incontrovertible. More often, it was simply a matter of knowing something to be true, and making the best use of this knowledge. Therefore he waited, and kept a small corner of his awareness engaged in watching the road to the Ford.

~*~*~*~

The day before the winter solstice, the period celebrated by men and hobbits as the turning of the year, a time for family and gift-giving, friendship and joy, Imladris received the heaviest snowfall of its existence. There were some hard stares in Glorfindel’s direction, as it was a thing now known that Lord Elrond had ceased his tampering with the forces of nature at the warrior’s request. Nothing was said openly, however, as elves found themselves, for the first time in many long centuries, needing to form teams to clear the paths and keep the haven running effectively.

A number of off-duty warriors were given responsibility for keeping the Ford and the steep trail leading down to the valley passable. There was some discontent over what many felt it to be unnecessary work, till it was made clear that the instruction came from Lord Elrond himself, and that he was of the belief that this was a matter of the utmost urgency.

The traditions at this time of year amongst the elves of Imladris were something that had grown over the centuries into a sort of synthesis between the Yule traditions of the Secondborn and the elven acknowledgement that the year had turned, spring would return and with it the growing time would begin. The evening before the solstice usually involved a community dinner, followed by songs and the telling of tales around the fire, as a prelude of sorts to the festivities to be enjoyed the following night.

Although a sense of impending darkness sat at the edge of awareness of all the inhabitants of the valley refuge, there was also a determination to refuse to give it power through acknowledging its presence. This time of year, rooted in such concepts as hope, light and rebirth, was an apt focus, and, despite the inclement weather, preparations for the Winter Moon celebrations went ahead enthusiastically.

~*~*~*~

Throughout dinner, despite maintaining an attitude of polite interest in everything happening around him, Elrond was unusually quiet, something which was marked by those sitting closest to him. After intercepting some hard looks from Glorfindel, however, everyone was very careful to refrain from asking what, if anything, was amiss.

At the end of the meal, everyone retired to the Hall of Fire, which had been decorated in the best Imladrian tradition – in other words, it had been transformed for the evening’s entertainment in a manner owing much to many cultures, and very little to any one particular one. The valley of Imladris had been refuge over time to many and cherished its diversity, somehow melding various ideas into a welcoming, inclusive whole.

The Hall was illuminated throughout by scores of tiny lanterns, burning in a variety of soft shades behind coloured glass. Streamers festooned with little glittering, painted suns, stars and representations of forest animals were to be found strung between and draped from every available surface.

There were holly branches and mistletoe, as well as garlands laden with berries, most of this greenery being studded with apples, painted scarlet, silver or gold, which caused Glorfindel to ask Elrond if this had been the reason for his urgency in keeping the trees free from snow for as long as possible. This earned him the first real smile of the evening from the dark haired elf at his side, who remained still and subdued, in sharp contrast to the festive mood surrounding them.

“My mother would have loved all this,” Glorfindel said with a fond smile. “She wouldn’t have understood it, but she would have loved it.”

“I have no idea what my mother would have thought of it,” Elrond, who had lost both parents while far too young, said with a wry smile. “But I can tell you that Maglor would have taken one horrified look and fled.”

They were in the midst of laughter, their heads close together, when Elrond suddenly stopped and went completely still. Glorfindel felt him leave his body, leave the Hall. The half-elf sat motionless, his eyes staring unseeingly before him, barely seeming to breath. Glorfindel put a hand lightly on his shoulder, as Elrond had taught him to do at such times, so that he would have a thread to follow back, and waited, ready to turn aside anyone who might at that moment attempt to approach them.

Elrond returned as he had departed, abruptly, blinking his eyes twice and reaching up almost as a reflex to touch the hand on his shoulder in silent thanks. He shook his head briefly, grounding himself. When he turned to speak to Glorfindel his voice was steady, certain. “You need to get a full force out onto the King’s Road,” he said firmly. “There is a party a few hours’ ride from here being pursued by an orc band. Unaided, they will not reach us.”

Glorfindel rose at once. “Have you any idea who they are?” he asked over his shoulder, as he put down his wine and prepared to exit the Hall.

“Not all. But it is a party comprised mainly of men, and my sons ride amongst them.”

“Dúnedain,” Glorfindel murmured., “As you said, it has begun.”

“Not begun, my love,” Elrond replied. “Whatever this is, it is upon us.”

They touched twice, once the warrior’s greeting, the grip of hand to arm, and once in a manner which was all their own, a light, quick touch of fingertips to cheek, and then Glorfindel left, going out into the dark and the snow to call together his fighters.

~*~*~*~

The steep, winding path up from the valley floor was slippery but fairly safe, thanks to the efforts made at Elrond’s insistence to keep the way clear, and the company of elves led by Glorfindel made good time. Passing the duty guard at the top, pausing only to give them instructions to be doubly vigilant, they turned their horses into the wind and set out at the best speed possible for the river Ford that marked the boundary of Imladris.

Out of the protection of the valley, the wind howled around them, and any save elves riding elven-raised horses would have given up and turned back. The snow had temporarily ceased, but in its place a light but bitingly cold rain fell, and all about them was darkness.

The Ford itself carried an off-putting appearance, for the water had risen far higher than normal and looked dark and angry, but Glorfindel, in answer to expressions of concern, reassured the group. ”This is Lord Elrond’s river and lies under his hand. It holds no peril for any traveling this path on his business or with his blessing.”

So saying, or more exactly shouting in defiance of the wind, he urged his horse into the water and led the way across and up onto the road, or rather what could be discerned of it under its blanket of snow.

The going was slower now, in deference to the need to take care for the horses’ footing on the snow, but they maintained a steady pace, riding on into the dark of the night. They were an hour beyond the Ford when Celanor, riding to the fore, called back over his shoulder, “Riders approaching, my Lord. At speed!”

Glorfindel drew his company to a halt, deploying them with hand gestures and a few words into a state of battle readiness, and drew his sword. Out of the dark, a small group of riders appeared, bearing down upon them.

At the last possible moment, realising that they were not alone on the road – men not having the eyesight of elves, especially not in the dark – the approaching party pulled to a halt with a fair amount of shouting and jostling. Out of the group Elladan rode, calling something back over his shoulder as he did so.

“Very well met, Glorfindel,” he called. “My companions are Dúnedain, and also Gildor and some few of his company. We are pursued by orcs—”

“This is why we are here, sent by your father’s wisdom,” Glorfindel cut in. He gestured to the elves behind him. “Do we have the numbers to deal with them now, do you think?”

Elladan looked and nodded briefly. “Probably,” he said. “But some of us must ride ahead. Arathorn has fallen, and his settlement is under attack. We are taking his family to the House for safety.”

Glorfindel felt something grow still within him for a moment. He personally had been one of the few elves who had liked the grim-faced, serious man, respecting his firmness of purpose and battle skills. He had also spent enough time in Arathorn’s company to have grown to like his occasional dry wit and cynical assessment of his fellows. Glorfindel turned his left hand palm down to the ground and murmured the age-old benediction.

“Go well, my friend. Safe journey into the Light.” Then he looked at the group of riders before him, quickly assessing. There was a small group of men, plus ten elves, including Elrohir and Gildor. Someone rode behind Gildor, and Elrohir was carrying something bundled up before him, which he was holding with great care.

“Elladan, you will take this company,” he ordered, indicating the warriors he had brought from Imladris, “plus the Dúnedain and half of Gildor’s company, and deal with the orcs. I will ride with Elrohir and Gildor to Imladris.”

Elladan was his father’s heir, trained to make decisions, lead warriors and, more importantly, heed the advice of those better qualified than himself. His instinct was to stay with his brother and those in his care, but his common sense and training told him that they would be much better off under the protection of the Aman-born, battle-hardened warrior famous for having fought and killed a balrog.

The danger was behind, not before, and he would personally not give much for the chances of any ten orcs unfortunate enough to come up against Glorfindel of Gondolin. Elladan gave it a moment, but could find no fault with the instruction.

“As you say,” he responded with a quick nod.

Turning his horse, he rode back and passed on Glorfindel’s instructions. He had a brief exchange with one of the men while Gildor was dividing his fighters, but it was quickly resolved, especially as the wind had dropped slightly and the guttural hunting calls of orcs could be heard in the near distance.

The two groups separated with few words, the Dúnedain speaking brief farewells to the figure huddled behind Gildor as they rode past and the twins offered seldom-required words of caution to one another, accustomed as they were to ride and face threat together. Then the larger group turned into the wind and went in search of the orcs, the pursuers becoming in an instant the pursued, while the smaller group turned for the Ford and home.

~*~*~*~

They rode swiftly under the low, cloud-heavy sky, the little group of warriors loosely surrounding Gildor, Elrohir and their burdens. Elrohir had said no word in greeting to Glorfindel, but had met his eyes and given him the sweet, wondering smile which Glorfindel remembered as being very like his mother’s. Celebrían’s calm, generous nature had made her dear to him, even though she had been the one who, for over two millennia, had kept him from his heart’s desire.

Glorfindel rode for a time beside Gildor, whose companion turned out to be a frightened, dark eyed mortal girl who he managed to identify as Arathorn’s wife – now widow. Widowed at an age younger than most were even married, she clung to Gildor, her eyes dark with shock and fear. Gildor himself filled Glorfindel in briefly on the events of the past few days. He looked tired, his dark red hair was pulled back from his face in an untidy horse’s tail, and his light brown eyes were dulled with weariness.

The standard, predictable sweep to separate and eliminate as many orcs as possible had failed. The quarry, showing an unusual degree of cohesion, had circled back and turned on their hunters. Gildor’s suspicion that the source of their direction lurked within Dol Guldur certainly rang true for Glorfindel. He, along with Elrond, Galadriel, and Mithrandir, was in favor of mounting a large enough combined force to go and try and clear out that nest of darkness for once and for all, and this news added impetus to the idea.

The battle had been hard and bitter, and they had been hampered by wind and driving rain…

(‘There was fighting and there was blood and it was raining ‘ Glorfindel remembered, spoken in a quiet, hollow voice against a background of softly crackling hearth fire)

…and they had won the day in the end, more or less, but there had been grim losses – two elves and fifteen men, amongst them their chief, Arathorn, Isildur’s heir, by right of blood hereditary King of Gondor.

The return to the nearby Dúnedain settlement had been not a moment too soon. Instead of turning and melting into the wild as was usual, the orcs had regrouped and had appeared to be involved in a bid to wipe out every last man, woman and child in the place. The fight had been brief and bloody and, though they had been driven back, it was understood that they would return.

“We decided to get those who could manage the journey to a better fortified spot,” Gildor finished. “But as for Arathorn’s family, Elrohir insisted that they were to be taken to his father.” He paused, uncertain for a moment. “I was not sure what Elrond would want,” he admitted. “But I assumed his sons would be best placed to know his thoughts…”

“You chose right, Gildor,” Glorfindel told him, reaching over to squeeze the tired elf’s arm. He thought back on the dangerous, draining attempts to keep the entrance to Imladris free of the ravages of the harsh weather, the greater efforts at watchfulness that had left his lover exhausted and himself responding in fear-induced anger. “I think Elrond has been expecting this, or something like it, for some time now.”

~*~*~*~

They rode across the bridge into Imladris proper in the hour before what would have been dawn, had there not been cloud cover so thick that daylight would almost certainly be long delayed. They had encountered no dangers on the road, although they had been held up on the path down into the valley, made treacherous by rain and snow and needing to be traversed with care.

Elves came running to take their horses as they approached the side entrance to the House instead of riding the short distance to the stables. Even Glorfindel, who almost always preferred to see to his horse himself, was happy to relinquish her care and forgo the walk back through the snow. He did, however, give her nose a quick rub and surreptitiously rested his cheek against hers briefly, whispering,

“I will come and see you are settled properly before I seek my bed, I promise.”

Elrond teased him mercilessly about his bond with his horses, but his defense was that he had always found that a well-treated horse could make a better, kinder friend and certainly a more sympathetic listener than most elves of his acquaintance

He turned back just in time to see Elrohir walk up to the girl – her name was Gilraen, he finally remembered – and place the bundle, which turned out to be a small child, well wrapped against the cold, into her arms, as she stood looking in awe at the ancient buildings, set into the side of the valley wall, rising up before her.. Gildor moved to put a hand to her arm, guiding her forward, while telling his people to go and seek out food and warmth in the Hall, from where the faint sounds of a harp could still be heard. Imladris had a reputation, even amongst elves, for being the valley that never slept.

Elrohir led the way inside, where they were met almost upon entry by Melpomaen, looking even younger than his years, and obviously newly wakened. He informed them that Lord Elrond was in the green reception room and wished them to join him there. The request was addressed to Elrohir, child of the House as he was, but encompassed them all.

The green reception room was a small, little-used room, which may at some point have been green although no longer, tending more towards yellows and browns. Elrond was standing before the fire wearing warm, rust coloured robes, his hair neatly braided, mithril circling his brow.

He looked immediately to Glorfindel as they entered the room, grey eyes meeting blue, the only question that mattered between them asked and answered. (“Are you unharmed?” “Yes, my heart.”) Satisfied, he turned to Gildor.

“Tell me.”

Gildor told him of the fighting, of the death of the chief of the Dúnedain, of the attack on the settlement, and of Elladan and Elrohir’s decision to bring Arathorn’s family to Imladris, which information was greeted with a simple nod. Finally, when Gildor had finished, Elrond turned his attention to Elrohir and asked quietly,

“What do you bring me out of the darkness, heart’s child?”

Elrohir turned towards the girl. “Ada, this is Gilraen, Arathorn’s widow.” He went and took the sleepy child from her arms. “This is his son. She is the woman in my dream, and this child, this is the lantern. I knew it from the moment I saw them.”

Elrond went over and took the child and set him to stand in front of the fire, then knelt down to better study him. He was very, very young, probably no more than two at most, but he was a sturdy boy, with a head of gently curling, dark blonde hair, a serious little face and direct, light eyes. He stood quietly and regarded Elrond with as much curiosity and interest as he was receiving from the dark haired elf.

Elrond looked up at the girl, who was trying not to look over-awed by her surroundings. In the common tongue he asked her,

“What have you named him, Gilraen? It escapes my memory.”

Nothing, as everyone else in that room knew, ever escaped Elrond of Imladris’ memory for any amount of time, but this would, perhaps, begin the process of putting her at her ease.

“We named him Aragorn, my lord,” Gilraen said softly, her eyes downcast. She had seen elves at her wedding, but had never spoken to one before, nor been this close to one. She was a rather shy, very frightened young girl, cut adrift from her people, far from home, and in the company of strangers.

“Aragorn,” Elrond mused, touching the child’s hair lightly with his fingertips. “It is a good name,” he agreed, rising to his feet again. “But it is no longer a name for everyday use. As they have killed the father, so they will hunt the son, given the chance, which may well be the reason for the attack upon your home, child.”

He took a turn around the room, his face thoughtful, then returned to stand looking down once more at the boy. He glanced over at Elrohir.

“Your dream was of a woman carrying a lantern through the darkness,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, that could very well fit. He could very well be that.”

Elrond put his hands on Gilrean’s shoulders, looking down at her.

“You and your son will find a safe home here,” he said in a gentle voice, “but we are going to have to change his name. Dark forces are moving, which I think would seek the life of a child known to be Isildur’s heir. There must be nothing that speaks too loudly of his ancestry, nothing to connect him to his father at this time. Is this well with you?”

She nodded, not speaking. When he released her, she went at once to pick up her son and hold him closely to her, needing time to adjust to the knowledge that, because of him, she would live in peace and comfort while the rest of her kind dwelt in fear and lack in the wild places of the North.

Elrond reached out and gently cupped the child’s face with one strong, elegant hand. The light eyes, neither blue nor green, surveyed him and then, tentatively, the boy smiled.

“Child of the future, child of hope. Sent in these, the darkening days of our age,” Elrond whispered, his eyes taking on a silver sheen as, for a moment, he looked into a time and place which others could not see. Then he smiled at Gilraen, as the future spoke to him.

“Child of hope,” he repeated, nodding. “It sits well. We will call him Estel.”

~*~*~*~*~

Finis

~*~*~*~*~

Beta: Fimbrethiel