In a place beyond time, the One gathered sundered threads, threads of light, threads of darkness. He wove them within the divine music, with love, and with strength. Thus His will went forth, and the echo of it was heard…
Within the Void, Evil howled and slavered…and laughed. Sensing the possibilities inherent in seeds long planted…and revenge upon old enemies never forgotten.
Dusk had fallen. Glorfindel’s head came up, listening to a sound far away, a sound not anywhere within the confines of Vinyacuivenien. What he heard was a cry of despair within the gathering darkness, a shifting of balance. Another voice, becoming ever more faint.
Beyond the elven sanctuary, the world lay in the grip of war, unlike any that had come before. It seemed the race of men was destined to fall into ruin, even more so than any other time of history…and a madman held the reins of power.
Sending out a silent summons, Glorfindel did not have to wait long for the Noldo’s arrival. Fëanor’s own concern was written upon his face. Helping himself to the wine upon a side table, Fëanor sank into the chair opposite, fixing the Vala with his diamond-bright gaze.
“It appears each of us will need to make a sacrifice, he ventured bluntly. “Are you prepared for the consequences?”
Glorfindel’s head dropped back, as if studying the ornate ceiling.
“You know how I feel about it…I had hoped the need would not come to pass, but better our own preference set aside than to retreat before the storm once again.”
“This is not the end, then?” Fëanor asked calmly, though his eyes glittered.
“I do not think so…it is a calculated strike, however. The potential is there. Men will become ever more used to war on such a scale, and old seething resentments will guarantee shorter lulls between their conflicts. They are oblivious to being just pawns in Morgoth’s game. This latest is specifically designed to weaken Vanimorë before the true battle begins.”
“Hence your call to me, for I know you do not suffer my presence gladly.”
Glorfindel’s expression was feral. “I do not. You have an annoying tendency to attempt trespass.”
Fëanor snorted. “By all means, speak your mind.”
“Let us just say that in these circumstances, our interests are mutual and leave it thus.” Glorfindel’s expression forbade further baiting.
Fëanor complied. Their time was short, and further argument served no purpose. “Have you spoken with Legolas?”
“Not as yet. I shall tonight.”
“He and Elgalad had a strong bond, their spirits binding them as brothers. He both hears and sees him more easily than we.”
“I know…and as little as I like it, I can see him agreeing to this madness.”
“Madness? Art thou certain it is not mere jealousy?” Feanor replied, unable to resist a final jab. “I think you underestimate him. The Silvan understand these things more clearly than we, for they are bound more deeply to Arda’s song. He and Elgalad possess innocence, as well as shared history and trust. That innocence and trust are the very qualities which would allow the directive we were given to succeed. All that remains to chance is whether Elgalad will still be strong enough to aid us.”
“I saw them”, Glorfindel answered quietly, his thoughts drifting to the past. “The day Vanimorë returned. I hope to never witness such a thing again. Their sorrow was too deep for tears, and with all the power given me, I could do nothing to ease them. Vanimorë yet comes to me, as he does to Maglor when his despair becomes too great; but it is no longer enough. He needs Elgalad.”
Fëanor’s gaze never wavered as he answered, willing to concede. “I do not think it chance where we have all the needed elements to hand, as well as our mutual sense of this being a part of the One’s plan. I could not call upon Fingolfin with such generosity were our situations reversed.”
Glorfindel sighed. “You and I each have our soul’s mate, although our attentions wander at times. We help hold the balance, each in our own way. Vanimorë and Elgalad must sustain themselves with memories, and a time comes when memory is no longer enough. Vanimorë has nothing to anchor himself within the long drag of years. Duty becomes a crushing burden when there is no place of rest and hope. For the sake of us all, Vanimorë must endure.”
Fëanor rose. “Then I shall meet you back here within the hour, and we will proceed as best we may.”
*****
Legolas soft eyes were focused on Glorfindel’s face when Fëanor returned, absorbing everything Glorfindel told him with undivided attention. The Noldo reclaimed the chair he had occupied earlier, placing a small casket he had brought with him on the table beside his chair. He waited, silent.
Legolas’ hands remained clasped within Glorfindel’s when the Vala finished speaking, and he did not answer for several long moments. He instead studied their joined hands, before his trusting gaze once again met his lord’s.
“Art thou sure, beloved? I know how it would be for myself to be parted from thee, without hope of touching thee until beyond the end of all things. I could not endure a world without thee, and would not wish to try. I have not the strength. If this may accomplish such as thou hope, I am willing to try.”
Glorfindel’s hand rose to wipe away the tear that traced the beloved face, then leaned forward to gently kiss him. “Thou art stronger than thou thinkest, and I love thee.”
“As I love thee, my lord,” Legolas answered softly. “What must I do?”
“Only trust, and call him.” The Vala’s gaze shifted to Fëanor.
A single nod answered him as the Elf reached to open the jeweled casket. The glory of the Silmaril blazed forth, bathing the room in its purity and fire. Fëanor brought it to Legolas, who had risen to face him.
“It will not harm thee,” Fëanor said softly, as he placed the jewel in Legolas’ hands. “Nor will it harm him.”
“I feel as if I betray thee, my lord,” Legolas replied to Glorfindel, even as his fingers closed around it.
“Do not, for thou dost not. Only thou canst bestow this gift,” Glorfindel replied softly, and kissed him once more, in blessing.
Legolas stood silent some few moments, then taking a deep breath, he sent out a silent call.
“Meluion!”
A short span of time passed as they waited, but then they felt the ethereal presence of another within the room. A silver shimmer slowly took form within the radiance of the Silmaril’s nimbus, becoming a figure who might almost have passed as Legolas’ twin. The features solidified, reflecting his bewilderment as he felt himself become something more than he had been since his passing. With this solidity came speech, wonder replacing the sorrow that dwelt within his soft eyes.
“My lords?”
“Welcome, Elgalad,” Glorfindel replied gently. “We have missed thee.”
“As I have missed thee…” Elgalad’s voice was a mere whisper of sound.
“The time is limited wherein we may hold thee here; and thy lord hath need of thee, as I am sure thou knowest...only now have we discovered how to help thee to help him…I only wish we had known ages ago.” Glorfindel’s voice was soft with deep regret.
Elgalad’s eyes met Legolas’ in shining hope as he divined their purpose. “My lords! What thou design is a gift beyond price!”
The ghost of joyful tears shone upon his face, along with a radiance they were humbled to look upon. Glorfindel felt the last vestige of jealousy leave him in the face of such hope, for Elgalad’s gratitude made him think too closely upon his own possessiveness. He turned away, approaching his own beloved, and resolved within himself to rethink many things.
Glorfindel cupped Legolas’ face in his hands.
“Sleep, beloved…remember naught of what shall pass, thou art safe in thy gifting.” With a last gaze of total trust, Legolas’ eyes drifted closed.
Elgalad’s form drifted to settle upon Legolas as a shimmering mist, and within the Silmaril’s light, a change was wrought…Legolas’ features shifted slightly to become other, his hair taking on the silver-gilt sheen so familiar to those present, and so long missed. Gentle grey eyes opened, and Elgalad smiled. He had only a breath of time to marvel at being once again rehoused before the air was displaced with a sudden violence, and Vanimorë appeared.
“Meluion…art thou truly here? I felt thee live!”
“M-my beloved lord…”
The amethyst eyes held a depth of grief and weariness shattering to look upon, and yet a wild and desperate hope in the truth standing before him. Almost as if afraid to believe, Vanimorë sank to his knees, raising a shaking hand toward Elgalad. The Silmaril’s light sparked upon a band of gold and sapphire encircling his finger, his own marriage band placed long ago upon the finger of the body lying elsewhere, waiting. His breath heaved in great shuddering sobs.
Fëanor’s voice drifted back to them as he and Glorfindel departed. “Thou hast until sunrise…and you must remain within the light of the Silmaril for the magic to hold. A chamber has been prepared for thee. As we were told, so also we tell thee.”
Meluion closed the distance between them in the space of a heartbeat, launching himself into his lord’s arms, Alive, warm, whole, he was received into a crushing embrace. A hunger endured, denied, flared to incandescence as their lips met, their tears mingled, the all-encompassing glory of the Silmaril burning away the grief of their ages of separation.
“Thou art m-my peace and my h-healing, my lord,” Meluion breathed in answer to Vanimore’s unspoken question. “I love thee… it is enough that d-dost love m-me”
This time, this time when Vanimorë reached out he touched living warmth, and the touching was a sweet agony. Slowly his mind accepted what he had buried so deep within, through all the years when he could no longer bear to stay away, no longer hold himself apart from looking upon what he had lost.
Time upon time Vanimorë had appeared at the bedside of his lost beloved, while Glorfindel watched over them from without, never intruding. The events of Vanimorë first wild grief had not been repeated. Instead, he lay upon the bed beside Elgalad, speaking to him softly through the long nights. In the morning he would be gone, but the pillow where he had lain was soaked with his tears. Legolas or Maglor would recomb the silver-gilt hair Vanimorë had curled around his fingers.
Meluion’s voice broke through the pull of grief remembered.
“Beloved lord…let us not waste this precious time…have no fear, for thou shalt not burn me, except with the fire of thy loving. I need thee!”
Through the depths of the night, raven and silver-gilt spread upon the pillow, entwined as the One’s weaving begun in the foundations of the world. Soft cries of love, greater ones of passion blending in symphony drifted through the night, rising to bind themselves within a pattern of stars placed as both warning and vow. Light eclipsed the darkness in purity of silver flame, holding, healing, restoring. Above the place where they lay, Ithil’s light embraced the shadow across his face, a sign to all who beheld it; a promise from the One. The notes of a music long absent were heard once more, reflected by a lone harp in a great outpouring of joy.
End
Members: 3897
Series: 152
Stories: 4958
Chapters: 20133
Word count: 47659752
Authors: 1074
Reviews: 24094
Reviewers: 1221
Newest Member: leggyishawt74547
Challenges: 118
Challengers: 54
Who's Online:
Guests: 11
Members:
Members: