Chapter 11

Glorfindel wondered, considering the circumstances under which he and Elrond had been interrupted, if it were possible for Cirdan’s arrival to have been more ill-timed or unwelcome. He was aware of Elrond drawing a deep breath, which he held for several heartbeats before he released it. He could see Gil-galad behind Círdan, attempting to appear to be no more than an interested observer, and resolved to discuss that act of avoidance with him later.

Glorfindel’s impulse to escape was curbed rather less by his natural honesty – he was a terrible liar – than by his lack of any convenient excuse for leaving. He also hoped he could manage to distract Círdan before Elrond decided to respond to the criticism of his clothing, which Glorfindel suspected would have the effect of turning a lecture into a confrontation. He therefore said quietly, “How can I help you, my Lord?”

Círdan took his arm, and indicated that Glorfindel should walk with him, gesturing in the general direction of the lake, a small body of water closer in size to a large pond, which was encircled by a tidy gravel path. Benches had been set around it at regular intervals, and it was Círdan’s opinion that it was all far too regimented, reflecting the Noldorin love of order and control, but there was no denying that the area was regularly frequented by much of the Palace’s population.

He was concerned at Gil-galad’s revelation of the growing relationship between him and this Elf the Valar had seen fit to return from the dead. Kings, to his mind, needed to marry and produce heirs, not have affairs of this nature. He intended to broach the subject later, very carefully of course. For now, there was something else which caused him concern and about which he also had strong feelings.

“Glorfindel, his Majesty tells me you are reluctant to accept the position that he has offered you. I am certain that you realise he has been looking for someone suitable to place at the head of his army for quite some time now. I wished to make certain you had given his offer your full consideration.” He realised that Glorfindel had stopped walking, and did so as well, although keeping a hand on the firmly muscled arm. “I can assure you, we would not have considered this had we any doubts as to your ability. After all, the probability that the Valar sent you back for just such a reason is too strong to be denied.”

Glorfindel stood listening to this monologue, which was being delivered with all the weight of authority, age and experience that Círdan could bring to it. He made no attempt to interrupt or respond, knowing he was no match, verbally, for the ancient Elf. He was normally at ease with Círdan, certainly, but the idea of trying to argue with him was too bizarre to entertain.

He happened to be facing Gil, and took the opportunity to watch him, something he never tired of doing. He was therefore in a position to notice the look of discomfort on his face, and the way this hardened into something closer to annoyance at the point where Círdan stopped referring to ‘his’ wishes in favour of ‘ours’.

He knew Gil-galad avoided confrontations with his foster father, claiming it was because of the love and respect he held for him. Glorfindel, however, had spent his entire youth woefully failing to live up to his father’s expectations, and had both seen and heard enough in the short time he had known Gil and seen him with his foster father to have formed his own conclusions.

He was so busy studying Gil and wondering if this was the point when he would finally contradict Círdan that he completely forgot about Elrond, still tightly strung and sensitive after finally sharing his memories of a frightening and life altering experience. Glorfindel was abruptly reminded by a cool, toneless voice that cut through Círdan’s words like a knife.

“Assuming the Valar had anything in mind beyond sowing confusion, whatever they intend might still be far in the future.”

Elrond had moved while speaking to place a light hand on Glorfindel’s free arm. He was carrying himself very erect and his face was expressionless. “It may be something as simple as passing on his sword skills to someone whose need of them will be vital someday. You have no way of knowing this, my Lord, any more than I do or Ereinion does. Glorfindel needs to follow his own instincts, and if they speak against the position you had in mind for him, so be it. It isn’t your choice to make.”

Círdan, predictably short of patience with someone young, inexperienced, and clad in yellow silk in the middle of the day, snapped, “Your manners are lamentable, young one. Not purely your fault of course, but even Maglor should have known to teach you to hold your tongue while your betters speak.”

Elrond was quiet for the one moment it took him to confirm that Círdan had just insulted the only person who had shown him kindness from the time his mother had died until he had been placed in Gil-galad’s household. He then let his tongue pick its own words

“Indeed, my Lord. And he was also at great pains to teach me how to determine who my betters actually are. I would think that, as King Turgon’s great-grandson, decisions concerning one of his warriors would be more my concern than yours.”

“I think not,” Gil-galad interjected, before Círdan could catch breath to respond. “You both seem to be overlooking a small detail here. I have been High King since Turgon’s death, something I’ll thank you to remember, Elrond. Glorfindel’s future is my decision, not yours.”

Glorfindel felt light and disconnected from the growing argument. The only thing that registered clearly was Gil’s annoyed declaration of control over his life. He shrugged loose from both Círdan and Elrond, and turned so he could look directly at the King. His temper had always been very slow to surface, yet Gil-galad had somehow managed to make him really angry twice in as many days. As the target was Gil, he was more confident in expressing this anger than he might have been with anyone else.

“You are High King, and I owe respect to the title and its holder, and you will never have less,” he said, meeting and holding the light blue eyes and picking his words carefully. “But the king who received my oath of loyalty died the day Gondolin fell. I am not property to be disposed of as you or anyone else sees fit. I am free to offer my loyalty where I will, and I give it willingly to Idril’s grandson.” He turned to catch Elrond’s disbelieving stare and, placing left hand to forehead, bowed the correct degree. “This Prince of Gondolin can decide my future. I leave it in his hands.”

And turning, Gondolin’s golden warrior strode off, leaving them to watch his departure in silence, save for Gil-galad’s disbelieving mutter of “What the…?”

Eventually Círdan turned to Elrond. “I hope you will not attempt to claim an authority which is well beyond both your right and your experience…” he began.

“Beyond my right?” Elrond asked sharply. “Really? I had no idea I’d been declared illegitimate, my Lord. When did that happen? He’s quite right, you know. Ereinion is High King, but Elros and I can certainly claim authority over someone who sees himself primarily as a citizen of Gondolin.”

“It is a great pity you are so unlike your brother,” Círdan snapped. “I am regularly convinced that he is the one who should have been numbered amongst the Firstborn.“

Laslech, having considered her options in this sea of raised voices, had quietly located herself behind and to the left of Elrond. Some implied threat in Círdan’s raised tone made her nervous, and she attempted her first serious growl, causing Gil-galad to snort with laughter. Elrond favoured him with a dark look before returning his attention to Círdan.

“Perhaps you need to have a chat with the Valar about that,” he said tartly, remembering the silent pavilion and the cool, emotionless voice of the Herald telling them to choose. “They neglected to state a clear preference.”

~*~*~*~

Several hours after these events, Gil-galad was alone in his workroom, looking with interest and not a little longing at the map of the recently established town about which he had previously received a report. He had been sufficiently interested to request further information and the small community had been quick to oblige.

Few people ever realised how much interest he took in these matters, or the extent to which he would have enjoyed the challenge of overseeing the development of a settlement of this type himself. There was no place in his life for such adventures, of course. His interest, therefore, had been suppressed, but never completely stifled.

A small sound in the general vicinity of the doorway made him look up. Elrond, wearing a fairly subdued-looking blue tunic, was standing halfway into the room, waiting to draw his attention.

“May I speak to you?” his cousin asked, once he saw he’d been noticed. Gil-galad nodded, leaning back in his chair and stretching thoroughly. If he was honest, a few extra hours‘ sleep would have been useful, though he was more than happy with the reason he had missed them.

Elrond came over and stood looking down at the map with interest. “Where is this?” he asked after a minute, shooting Gil-galad an inquiring look. The King traced along the outline of the coast with one finger down to the Havens, orientating Elrond, who nodded his thanks. They studied the map for a while in companionable silence, Gil-galad wordlessly pointing out details and getting nods and glances in reply. Eventually, however, Elrond straightened up and said quietly, “I need to apologise to you. I went too far. I forgot you were the King. I spoke to you as my cousin, and I was disrespectful to your rank.”

Gil smiled slightly, keeping his eyes on the map. It was an error Elrond would never have made even as recently as half a year ago. He was finally starting to believe he was safe and in a place where he no longer had to watch every word with care.

“I think it’s Círdan to whom you owe the apology,” he suggested. “You weren’t directly rude to me, after all, just dismissive, which I’m prepared to overlook. And you were at least half right about having some kind of hereditary authority over Glorfindel. It’s still too soon for him to regard himself as anything other than a citizen of Gondolin, after all. You might think twice about actually attempting to use it, though.”

Elrond’s face had taken on a stubborn expression. “I am not apologising to Círdan,” he said firmly. “He never has a good word to say to me or about me, and today it happened once too often. He had no business insulting Maglor. He did the best he could with us.”

Gil-galad allowed his face to reflect the satisfaction he felt on hearing this. He had also felt Círdan’s comment to be misplaced; he was a firm believer in loyalty and Maglor had raised the twins to the best of his considerable ability.

“I think he was more interested in making a point, Elrond. I truly don’t think it was his intention to insult Maglor; had it been, I would have said something myself. As you say, he cared for you and Elros, and that you were angry on his behalf is good and right. Only next time,” he suggested with a quick, affectionate smile, “you might consider being angry with a little more diplomacy.”

They exchanged glances and Elrond looked away first, giving a half nod. “I’ll apologise for being rude, because I should respect his age,” he agreed. “But not for what I said.” Gil-galad decided he lacked the will to pursue matters further, and simply hoped the apology went better than he somehow suspected it would. Instead he moved on to a subject he had been avoiding for as long as possible.

“I was wondering where you’d prefer to be seated tomorrow,” he asked. “You can sit with Elros, of course, but it might confuse some people. I thought either with my aunt or else next to Glorfindel….?”

“Tomorrow?” Elrond had returned his attention to the map and was studying it with unexpected interest.

“Your brother’s formal dinner?” Gil-galad reminded him mildly. Elrond neglected to look up.

“Oh, that. I wasn’t planning to attend, you can leave me off the list. Why have they put the market over here, with less access to the road?”

“So that there’s no interference with passing traffic. It’s accessible enough, just not intrusive. I’ll be interested to see how that idea works. And yes, you are coming. This is a formal dinner; you have to be present.”

“Have to?” Elegant brows were raised above cool grey eyes.

Gil-galad’s probable response was interrupted by Glorfindel rapping lightly on the doorframe and he greeted the blonde with something close to relief. Before the apology he had been practicing in his head could be uttered, Glorfindel said, “I came to apologise. I was rude beyond belief to you. Of course I recognise your authority, it was just that…”

“…just that I acted for all the world as though I owned you, and you, quite rightly, put me in my place. We were both at fault, but I was more so than you.”

Glorfindel smiled, his look warm and affectionate. “Then we were both wrong, we have both apologised, and now we can let it rest, if you will?”

Gil-galad’s answer was to reach out and slide an arm lightly round the blonde’s waist. “Indeed, let it rest,” he agreed. “I have a more pressing argument to engage in.” He turned his attention back to Elrond who was more or less ignoring them, apparently engrossed in an account of the detailed research into likely types of farming to be attempted in the area, which had poor soil due to its nearness to the sea.

“There’s no point in ignoring me, cousin. This is far from settled and the dinner’s tomorrow, which means we can’t put this discussion off any longer. My original plan was for you to be seated with Lord Círdan, but I think I’d fear for my digestion. Another possibility is for you to sit with the delegation from the Second-born…host them for me, perhaps?”

The sensual mouth was set into a straight line, and the long-lashed eyes stared at him rebelliously. Hosting the delegates was to have been Círdan’s task, and was both an honour and a responsibility, but Elrond was having none of it. Gil-galad felt his temper rising. “Look, these are your choices. You can sit with Círdan, you can sit with Glorfindel, you can sit with the Men or you can sit with my aunt.”

Glorfindel, who had heard the first part of the conversation before entering the room, and was following the one-sided exchange in silence, interrupted quietly, meeting Elrond’s eyes and speaking directly to him.

“Would you consider sitting with me? It would help me if you did. You know I’m still not comfortable surrounded by strangers. And you can’t decline to attend,” he added firmly, forestalling the comment he could see being developed for his benefit. “Your brother deserves better than for you to insult him and treat a dinner in his honour as beneath you.”

~*~*~*~

Convincing Elrond had gone surprisingly well, Glorfindel mused to himself later as he strolled through the carefully cultivated rose garden. Roses disliked the soil and setting of this part of Lindon but, coaxed by Elves who had a deep love for and understanding of the fragrant flowers, they had begun to thrive.

Knowing perhaps better than Gil-galad the intensity of feeling involved in the matter of Elros’ departure and all things connected with it, he had used the simple approach of appealing to Elrond’s better nature which, despite rumour, really did exist. The Half-elf was well aware of Glorfindel’s difficulties with being on public display, his extreme discomfort at having to interact with strangers.

Finally it was agreed that together they would host the guests from the delegation of the Second-born, which would be an uncomfortable business for the blonde, but he understood the art of compromise as practiced by Gil-galad, and accepted his part in it.

After Elrond had left, Gil had congratulated him on a job well done, in between a very thorough attempt to kiss and make up which was not strictly necessary but still very nice indeed. So nice, in fact, that it had necessitated the closing of the door against the world. After that, the chance of discovery having been reduced, fingers that grew more fevered by the moment undid buttons and fastenings, and divested bodies of various items of clothing in a clutter upon the floor, making a trail that led inexorably to the deep window seat.

Glorfindel had made a discovery. Gil had the power to simply make his mind stop working. He would be talking and following a line of thought and suddenly Gil’s mouth would be at his throat, Gil’s tongue would be caressing his ear, stroking slowly and sensuously from lobe to tip, and he would forget what he had been meaning to say, words halted, lost all meaning, and the only things that mattered were what that mouth was going to do next, and how soon it would take Gil’s large, sensitive and very talented hands to follow. In his clearer moments he wondered if this was the stuff of which addiction was made.

This time was no different. Sweet kisses became something stronger, more demanding. The lips that had captured his own with such tenderness became hungry, insistent, as they roved down his neck. They eventually settled where the muscle at the joint of neck to shoulder could be nipped sharply before being sucked hard enough to leave a dark purple mark, by no means the only one to be found colouring his fair skin.

Glorfindel’s rather nice tunic and the shirt of fine linen had been discarded somewhere near the door, and Gil knelt on the seat, his hands at the blonde’s waist, holding him steady. He eagerly kissed a trail that led very quickly from the base of the smooth throat to a hardening nipple, which he drew into his mouth eagerly, his tongue lapping it softly in an action closer to a kiss than the usual suckling motion. Glorfindel’s head fell back and he reached out a hand to Gil’s thick, dark hair, sinking his fingers into the softness, while his breathing grew shallow and his eyes slowly closed.

The first rose tinted nipple was released, the other offered the same caress of tongue and lips, warm wetness sending fire stroking to the source of all pleasure. Glorfindel groaned and, almost without thought, moved one hand down to give some ease to the sudden hardness at his groin. Gil sucked sharply, creating a sensation somewhere on the border between pleasure and pain, and then released him for long enough to whisper, “Go on, touch yourself, let me watch you.”

Glorfindel found he was being watched by intense blue eyes, within which a pale flame burned. He held Gil’s gaze, directing in downwards to focus on the movement of his hand while he eased himself back slowly till he was lying on the seat, one leg drawn up, the other flat but bent at the knee. Gil leaned over him, alternating between the taut nipples, sucking sharply, licking, teasing, while all the time watching, fascinated.

Glorfindel unfastened his leggings with one hand, the other remaining tangled lightly in Gil’s hair, and carefully drew aside cloth to reveal that his sex was, even at this early stage in their lovemaking, darkened and erect. He took himself in hand and began to stroke while rubbing his thumb lightly over the slit, spreading the fluid he found there, and all the time continuing the steady motion, up and down .His eyes closed again and he began to moan softly and move his hips lightly in time to the rhythm he had set.

Gil had stopped all pretense of participating at this stage and had gone to kneel on the floor next to the seat, his head against Glorfindel’s chest, watching, breathing in time with the soft moans. The fact that Glorfindel was turning into a wonderfully uninhibited lover, taking joy in their shared pleasure, was one of the many things about him that Gil-galad found irresistible. Eventually, however, he could remain a spectator no more.

“Waited long enough,” he muttered, and picked up the little container of rosemary-scented oil, one of a selection which he kept to use in the small burner on the corner of his desk when he was having a long day and felt his mood needed lifting. He was a little surprised at having kept the presence of mind to retrieve it before crossing the room. Kneeling up, he unfastened his pants, his eyes never leaving Glorfindel’s hand, following the almost languid action of teasing thumb over engorged head and around the underside of the rim, while his hand remained wrapped around his erection, his grasp firm.

Gil poured the oil into his hand, and then proceeded to apply it to his penis, his hand gripping a little tighter than needed, his breath hissing at each down stroke. When he was ready, he rose and moved to the end of the seat, and proceeded to tug Glorfindel’s leggings down, pausing to remove his boots at the last minute before dragging the clothing off to follow them onto the floor.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he murmured, running his hands firmly up the backs of Glorfindel’s thighs to the sensitive area behind the knees as he smoothly drew the blonde’s legs up and over his shoulders. Glorfindel cooperated, crossing his ankles lightly behind Gil’s neck and drawing his knees up towards his chest.

Gil watched for a moment longer as Glorfindel continued to fondle himself, then he moved his hands down, clasping firm buttocks, lifting, spreading and then thrusting forward so that the head of his erection just barely penetrated the tight warmth that awaited it.

He remained motionless, looking at the sight beneath him. The blonde was completely naked now, his hair a disheveled tangle over face and chest. His nipples were dark and still damp, his pale honey skin had the hint of a sheen of moisture to it, his cock was slick with pre cum. Glorfindel opened deep blue eyes and looked at him in an unfocused manner, then with a strange, tense smile asked huskily, “What are you waiting for?”

Gil-galad needed no further encouragement; he thrust forward slowly, carefully, all the way to the hilt. Glorfindel jerked up to meet him, growling in need. “Concentrate on how this feels,” Gil grated, drawing back slowly then thrusting deep and hard. “Focus on how it feels to have me inside you.”

Glorfindel cried out inarticulately and blindly clasped Gil’s arm with his free hand, tightening his fingers hard enough to leave bruises, and began to move to the pace he was set, giving himself over completely to desire.

Completion was swift for them both. Glorfindel was highly sensitive and responsive, and it took no more than two dozen hard but well aimed thrusts to drive him over the edge, crying out and arching his back violently, his face contorting and his head tossing from side to side. The combination of the contractions around his sex and the sight of Glorfindel lost to erotic passion was enough; Gil-galad found release almost immediately afterwards.

~*~*~*~

Glorfindel made his way through the hallways of the public section of the Palace, fresh from a brief meeting with Erestor, the junior military advisor with the interesting past and the dryly ironic sense of humour. They had discussed the level of expertise Glorfindel was looking for in his potential students, and had considered several possible venues for the classes. As a rule, no one waylaid this legend made flesh at those times when he walked with purpose, a look of thoughtful distraction on his face. This time proved to be different.

“Glorfindel. Cousin. How is it that you are alive?”

The blunt question should have been unacceptable, even though the voice that uttered it was sweet and low, with just the slightest hint of amusement. Because everyone else went to great lengths to avoid the subject, however, Glorfindel found the directness refreshing if startling. Turning, he found himself looking into eyes the blue-green colour of a sunlit sea, set in a grave, high-cheekboned face. The first thing anyone noticed, however, was the hair, which was golden as his own, and threaded with strands of pure silver. Despite an attempt to look offended, he found he was smiling broadly.

“Nerwen, only you would phrase it quite like that,” he told her with a chuckle, reaching out to hug Finarfin’s daughter, the flame of bright defiance and courage who, overshadowing her brothers, had been amongst the leaders of the rebellion, arguing with Fëanor, rejecting without reservation the warning to return home, crossing the Ice with a grim, determined air that was the best lesson in leading by example that he had ever seen.

Glorfindel, distant kin to this spirit of adamant, had admired her since childhood. She was one of the few people with whom he had always been at ease, and discovering that this had not changed was almost like a homecoming to him. However, he swiftly realised that things were not quite as they had been before. Galadriel was tall and had always been as strong and as slender as a young birch tree, but he became aware that something had changed.

He released her and stepped back to look at her properly for the first time. The once reed slim form was now delightfully swollen in what, to his inexperienced eye, seemed to be the mid stages of child bearing. There had been whispers, of course, and veiled comments, but nothing had been said to him directly, and the matter had apparently escaped Gil-galad’s memory. Glorfindel paused, even less certain than usual of the right thing to say. A low chuckle rescued him.

“Yes, I’m pregnant. Yes, of course it’s his – we’re formally bonded, after all – so, yes, it will be half Sindarin.”

Glorfindel coloured slightly at her knowing reference to the manner in which her life was discussed, the stories of how Finarfin’s daughter had, while in Menegroth, met and eventually bonded with a Sinda, kin to Elu Thingol, true, but nonetheless, not one of their own, and was moving from place to place in his wake, as rootless as any elleth of the Wandering Companies.

Nothing was said too loudly. She was the High King’s aunt after all, and Glorfindel had pretended to either not hear or else not understand the careful jokes, though he could have explained that it was more than likely to be Nerwen’s restless spirit that carried them forward, in her search for somewhere to call her own.

“People gossip,” he said finally, stating a self evident truth. He smiled at her, taking in the pale green robe, the darker over-tunic, the edge embroidered with yellow flowers, the sparkle in her eyes, the slight roundness to her cheeks. “You look well enough, though, so let them get on with it.”

She burst out laughing. “Cousin, you’ve changed. And for the better. Yes indeed, let them. And let us walk and talk and compare our lives. You, I think, have a tale to tell. And Nerwen was my name amongst my kin,” she added. “Most now call me Galadriel.”

~*~*~*~

Their walk took them outside to the corner of the garden Glorfindel had favoured since he had arrived in Lindon, the same spot where he had first met Gil-galad. They settled on the bench near the little fountain and spent a pleasant hour catching up on the events in one another’s lives, although Galadriel did the majority of the talking as she had somewhat more news to share.

She explained that she and her mate – Celeborn, formerly of Doriath – were in Lindon for a short time only, to await the birth of their child and to make decisions about the course of their future. They were not resident in the Palace, choosing, instead, to have their own small establishment close enough to the shoreline for them to be lulled to sleep each night by the sounds of the waves. She was vague about their possible plans, saying only that she would be remaining in Middle-earth.

The discussion about Glorfindel’s ‘misadventure’, as she chose to call it, was more animated.

“What do you mean, it caught your hair? What were you doing fighting a Balrog with your hair flying loose like something out of a saga?” she asked, bemused, reaching up a hand to touch the offending hair lightly.

“It was a festival,” he explained with a helpless laugh, feeling his cheeks flushing. “I had no idea that I would be fighting for my life, for the lives of others. Once it began there was barely time to seek armour and weapons, and many of us had no time even for that. I was fortunate to be near home. I never gave my hair a thought…”

She gave him a sideways glance, then put her hand on his shoulder in apology. “Things happen for their own good reason,” she said in a more gentle tone. “You fought as you did, perhaps even died as you did, to preserve the life of Eärendil, and he in his turn brought help out of the West to light the darkness for us…”

Her voice trailed off and she raised an eyebrow as Glorfindel sighed and nodded, then tilted his head back to look up into a tree where a nest containing three fledglings could be seen.

“I died to save a child who in his turn fathered children,“ he agreed. “One of those children said something very like this to me not so long ago. And who knows, perhaps you’re both right. Perhaps that was why I had to die. It doesn’t help with the question of why the Valar sent me back though. “

They sat listening to the birds and the soft, far-off sounds of voices. Galadriel was at ease with silence. She sat with half closed eyes, her hands linked lightly across the curve of her belly, her concentration apparently elsewhere. She was probably listening to the trees talk, Glorfindel though, more than half seriously. She had spent time with Yavanna in her youth and since then had given long years to learning as much as Melian had been prepared to teach. As he watched, she took a deep breath, smiling slightly to herself, then slanted him a look under unexpectedly dark lashes.

“They measure time differently to us, my dear,” she told him. “The reason may come to pass this week, next year, an age from now. There is no way to know. But your path will be guided, things will be put in your way to prompt you, never fear. They would hardly go to so much trouble simply to leave you to your own devices.”

Trying to ignore the cynical tone, alarmingly similar to Elrond’s, he confided in her the fear that came and whispered to him in the dark, or shadowed him on those quiet days when he felt lost and purposeless. Almost anytime, in fact, when he wasn’t in Gil’s company.

“What if my purpose is to die?” he asked her. “What if they just sent me back to die again? Sometimes I feel almost set apart, almost as though my time here will be too short to make it worth anyone’s while to get close to me.”

Galadriel was quiet for so long he thought she had decided not to answer but when she finally spoke he heard the weight of consideration in her voice, and something else, a thread of knowing that for some reason traced ice down his spine.

“I believe you were sent back to live,” she said quietly. “Why else would they go to such trouble? Not now, but in a time to come, your past experiences will stand you in good stead when you are called on to protect the future. For the present, do what seems best and most fulfilling, your destiny will come to find you in its own time. If you simply must seek answers, look for symmetry,” she added. “The Shining Ones enjoy it. You died for Eärendil, perhaps you live for his son? I have heard more than enough about Elwing’s younger son to think he may be in sore need of your protection over time. Or perhaps there is something else, someone else, who can tell? Their ways are – intricate.”

He returned her look with one he hoped was at least as steady. “Was that why you decided to remain? Your lack of ease with the Valar?”

Galadriel snorted in a most unladylike manner, putting Glorfindel in mind of her uncle Fingolfin, to whom she had been as close as a daughter. “Decide? My dear, there was no deciding to be done. I was told that my actions had been unacceptable and that my time of testing and cleansing lay still long in the future. Not till I pass this unknown test will I be allowed to leave here. I am an exile in the true sense.”

At his exclamation of sympathy she shook her head briskly. “Their Herald, one of the more unpleasant of his kind that I have ever seen, told me this and seemed quite put out when I laughed. I have no need of their forgiveness, nor do I need to be summoned home like a house pet that has played outdoors for longer than expected and is now to be returned to its cage. “

“Galadriel,” he breathed in horror. Somehow she made him far more nervous than Elrond had. Elrond had never seen the Western Shore, nor those who walked upon it. Nerwen – the new name would take time – certainly had. She swung round to face him, her eyes suddenly blazing.

“They will not allow me back because I will not be caged, and they fear that in me and the effect it might have on others. They have seen rebellion once, after all,” she hissed. “It is enough that I am bound by the conventions and short sighted rules that make up the Code of the Noldor, but at least I will survive that without the indignity of a cage. I am content to remain here for eternity if needs be.”

It was only over dinner that Glorfindel finally pieced together the meaning behind that uncharacteristic outburst. Noldorin conventions and law gave females limited rights of inheritance, especially where the royal succession was concerned. Were that not so, Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, not Gil-galad, son of Orodreth, would have sat in Lindon as High Queen of the Noldor in Middle-earth.

~*~*~*~*~

Part 12

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Beta: Enismirdal