The next few days are slow and sleepy.  Imladris has caught us all in a haze—one that Fírion and Tauriel are itching to get out of and on our way back home.  Fíria is mainly what's keeping us here; as the Fellowship do not plan to depart for a while, she is trying to savour her last time with Legolas before we part ways for what could be months.  Alëaren has done what she's always done when something upsets her: she isolates herself from it and busies herself with something else.  In this case, that consists of avoiding her father at all costs and immersing herself in the heavy, dust-coated tomes in Lord Elrond's library.  I doubt they truly interest her, but she rarely leaves the room, and if that's her coping mechanism then I see no reason why I should stop her.

Both Legolas and Fíria have tried to talk to their daughter, but Alëaren has an incomparable ability to close herself off—even from her own parents.  Legolas in particular will emerge fuming from the library almost every few hours after another failed attempt at justifying himself.  Part of me hopes he feels guilty that his choice has led his daughter to shut him out, but then again, I did understand what he chose to do.  Alëaren and Fíria might even believe I endorsed it.  On the other hand, when Telamír heard of what I'd said to Legolas, he empathised with me.  I can usually count on him to be on my side whenever Alëaren is not.

Telamír being Telamír, he has become fast friends with Elrond's sons and some of their friends, who have essentially taken him under their wing.  I have seen them giving him advice on how to chat up some of the beautiful elleths swanning about the courtyard—and vowed not to tell Fírion or Tauriel—but I think their advice will not pay off in the long run.  Charming as Tel is, I doubt Imladris elleths are his type.  And besides, I've seen him on many occasions making eyes at a pretty Silvan back home—Gelya's younger sister, Eirwen.

Eventually, I find myself bored enough to wander around the courtyards in search of new company.  The idea of spending any more time with the ellons who have essentially adopted Telamír seems to have lost all its appeal far too quickly. 

To my satisfaction, I find none other than Glorfindel lounging like a cat along the side of a wide, circular fountain.  He appears to be soaking up the sun, tipping his head back so the light can glint off his golden skin—a little more tanned than most elves.  He is tall and rather lean—not quite my father's staggering height, but tall enough that when he stretches out his legs and rises, I feel comfortably small in comparison.

The way he seems to be satisfied with the sight of me makes my heart flutter. How long had he been waiting out here? Had it been just in the hope of seeing me?

Externally, I keep my calm, holding contact with those crushing aqua-blue eyes. 'My people call you the Golden Revenant.'

'Mine call you the Sky's Miracle.  The first child of a Star.  I am honoured to be in your presence.' He gives me the customary head bow, and I return the gesture.

'As am I to be in yours.  Why aren't you going on the quest, may I ask?  If you are as skilled in battle as I have heard.'

He considers, as though the answer is somewhat beyond him. 'I was told my power is so strong, it will be easily noticed by the enemy and will give away the Fellowship's position.'

'That's not much of a reason.'

'You're right, it's not.  I knew that.  I also chose to stay for my own reasons.'

'So my half-brother could volunteer instead?'

'I don't think there was anything any of us could have done to stop him.  He seemed to have his mind set on it,' Glorfindel says smoothly. 'I looked for you at the Council, but you weren't there.'

'No, my father forbade it. He believes myself and my friends aren't able to comprehend such important matters.' I try my hardest not to sound too bitter, but it would appear Glorfindel has picked up on that nonetheless.

'If the fate of the world is at stake, it is my belief that all free folk should know—because they deserve to know if something threatens their lives, regardless of their ability to understand why.'

As he says this, I can see that he means it. Means it a great deal. The passion and vigour in his eyes speak to me of experience, of all those wars he's been through and survived—to some extent. On the rare occasion that my father speaks of his days in the wars of old, I can see him falling and crumbling inside from the memory. Glorfindel doesn't seem shaken by his past; he seems ignited by it. It is not ghosts that plague him, but a rage, a desire, an internal shift that only fuels whatever power it is he has.

I have heard before that this ellon is one of the few full-blooded elves in Middle Earth with significant power. He seems to glow with it, this half-visible halo of sunlight that calls out to my own magic in a delicate dance. I know without even testing it out that my power is far deeper and stronger than his, the full abyss of it beyond even my own reach, but Glorfindel's is indeed noticeable. After a moment of studying it, I can almost see why Lord Elrond opted not to let someone this powerful go on a trek into the jaws of Mordor. It's a relief neither Fíria nor Fírion are going, as this rule would certainly apply for them.

My magic is highly sensitive in comparison to most, I've noticed. The other magic-wielders of my court seem to lack in that area, even my mother. After years of being around them, I've become so used to the feel of the presence of their powers that they are little more than background noise to me. I had indeed felt the unfamiliar Lord Elrond's power, but he had it virtually closed off to me. Glorfindel has his wide open, almost as if he's asking me to explore it.

He seems to notice the edges of my magic carefully probing his, and smiles knowingly. I wonder what it feels like on his side—how vast my power must seem to a stranger with the capacity to feel it.

'If only you could have told my father that,' I say quickly, 'I couldn't have said it better.'

'It's alright, all the information you missed can be easily found out.  In all honesty, the Council mainly consisted of arguing,' he adds, almost amused.

I scoff to myself. 'I'm more than used to that, don't worry.'

'These are troubled times.  I think we all are.'

I peer at his golden hair for a moment—so gold it could be yellow, some near-exact mockery of the sun itself. 'My best friend wishes to know... why is your hair only down to your shoulders, not longer?'

A too-perfect grin. 'A bold question when you've known me for so little time.'

'I'm a bold elleth.'

He lifts a dark brow, the smile not leaving his lips. 'Clearly.  Tell her it's because when I killed the Balrog, I only fell into the abyss with it because as it was dying, it grabbed me by my hair—my hair which was as long as yours once.  And I don't plan on taking that risk again.'

'Understandable, I think.'

'Why does your other friend have his hair down to his shoulders?' Glorfindel asks.

'You mean Telamír?  Oh, that's the Dû-edhel fashion.  Fírion has it too.'

'Fírion's had it since before either of us had even heard of a Dû-edhel.  We had heard of Stars, however.  I knew the Star Menelion in his time helping to establish this place and defend it from Sauron's siege.'

A leap in my stomach. 'No, you didn't.'

That was in the middle of the Second Age, just after Glorfindel had been reborn by the Valar. It rattles my brain to think too long on the timing of Glorfindel's rebirth, but... my father had known Menelion, too. I wonder if his and Glorfindel's paths crossed at that time.

'I did.  He wasn't as curious as you—and he wasn't as beautiful, either.'

Heat ripples through me. 'Of course he wasn't.'

Glorfindel surveys the rustling trees lining the edge of this courtyard. 'What do you make of this place? I've lived here for some time now, but recently I've wanted nothing more than to get out.'

'You sound rather like Legolas,' I observe. 'I understand what you mean, really. The idea of far off lands tempts me too—I've found this place interesting, but I yearned for something a little more different than my home. Of course, Imladris is very different, but... I had something wilder in mind.'

'You share your brother's adventurous blood, do you? Pity that died out in your father long ago. They say he was wild and reckless in his youth—took after his own father.'

Of course. Glorfindel would have certainly met my grandfather Oropher during the War of the Last Alliance—and quite possibly fought in the very battle that saw his demise. Saw my father ascend to the throne.

'People say I take after mine. Too many people for my liking.'

Glorfindel's gaze rolls over me again, then lingers on my face. 'Perhaps so, but you are more beautiful than he is. Do I put that down to your mother?'

'You can put that down to whatever higher powers decided not to bless you with the gift of subtlety.'

He smiles—simultaneously amused and impressed. 'I could tell from looking at you that you would be most entertaining to converse with.  How would you like to walk with me?'

'It would be my honour.'

He extends his arm, and I gladly loop my own around it. I trust that he knows these paths well enough to guide us into the very heart of Imladris' idyllic glades, and he does not disappoint. He leads me through the delicate patches of woodland blooming in twists and turns between the white buildings, along the hillside that slopes gently down to meet the river as it rushes through the valley below.

And I let myself forget all about the Fellowship's quest, about the threat of war, the uncertainty of Legolas's fate. I let time slip away from my focus for now.

***

After returning to my chambers later, I spend the rest of that day mulling over what a twisted anticlimax this was.  We come to Imladris only to lose Legolas to a quest, and my closest thing to an adventure has been flirting with the Golden Revenant—not that I'm complaining about the opportunity.  As we prepare to leave the next day, it is rather a disappointment that whatever it was between Glorfindel and I didn't get any further.

Not many gather to see us off in the afternoon, but Glorfindel is one.  He and I do little for a goodbye besides a smirk and an inclination of the head. Our walk yesterday had almost been a scouting mission on both our parts, some mutual assessment of the other's power. His is bright and angelic, reminiscent of the essence of the Valar themselves. I refrained from asking him what he concluded about me.

I make sure to beam at Elladan and Elrohir, and of course, wave to Merry and Pippin crouched in the bushes.  I bow my head to Aragorn, and Legolas I embrace.  His shirt is already damp from where Fíria and Alëaren both wept onto him when it was their turns to bid him farewell.

'Stay out of trouble, Erainiel,' he says to me softly, 'only one of us is allowed to be the family disappointment.'

'Legolas, you're a hero for doing this.  If our father does not understand that, I'll feed all his clothes to the elk.'

His expression stays grave. 'I'm serious.  Stay out of trouble, get home as fast as you can, and make sure you all look after each other.  There is a war coming—I hope I do not have to remind you how high the stakes are.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

'Because I know what you're like, Erainiel.  You're also the most valuable person in our court.  You get yourself hurt, and Adar will see me impaled on a spike.'

'You shouldn't be held responsible for me.  I can look after myself.'

Legolas's face crumples, his brows furrowing. 'Just... use some sense, alright?  The world cannot afford to lose you—we cannot afford it.  You mean more to us than you think you do, and that is why you must be safe.'

'Muindor...'

His hand cups the side of my face.  'Live, Erainiel.'

'You had better do that, too.'

'I'll do it better if I know I can trust you.'

The pause before I answer is too long, too suggestive. 'You can,' I say—but I don't even know if I believe that myself.

I rejoin the rest of my company by the gate, and mount my horse. I wasn't planning on looking back, until someone else's magic brushes against mine—Glorfindel. I'm forced to give him one last look, let his beautiful face etch itself onto my memory. Our powers linger in the space between us, reaching out in some silent question: when will we meet again?

My company begins to leave. As we pass around the corner and out of sight, my gaze slips over to my half-brother. Legolas Thranduilion steps back to Aragorn's side, and breaks his promise.

***

Elvish:
Muindor = dear brother