Chapter Text
Loswë considered the two cakes before her. Apricot, or honey: which should she buy? The apricots were freshly in season–a surprise treat from Yavanna–but honey had always been Laurefindil’s favourite.
Not that this mattered, of course, now that he had gone on his next adventure. She simply found it hard to think of him as only a memory again, especially on days like this one, when some uncanny sense kept tricking her into thinking he was near.
Seeking to dispel the disturbing illusion, she glanced around… and found herself the object of intense scrutiny. Right there, next to the basket of long loaves, stood a man she had only ever seen on paper or canvas. And he was staring right at her.
Oh. Another of Laurefindil’s favourites, she thought numbly.
Well, Laurefindil had often expressed hope that they would meet him in person. Although right now, motionless as he was, he still resembled a work of art: a sculpture, and a particularly decorative one. Her son had been right about that, it seemed.
Loswë made a decision.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I think you must be– Are you Ecthelion, once of Gondolin?”
For a brief moment the man looked panicked, an expression she had not seen in any painting. But he regained his composure. “Yes,” he said. Even the single word carried a hint of music; Laurefindil had been right about that, too. “And you must be Loswë, his– I mean, Glorfindel's mother. I have seen a painting of you.”
Just the one? “Likewise,” she said. And then, “Are you busy tonight, I wonder?”
“No,” replied Ecthelion in confusion. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I would like to invite you to dinner.” She placed the honey-cake in her basket. “I think we should get to know each other, don’t you?”
—
The dinner went… fine, Loswë thought. Ecthelion, once he got over his shock, turned out to be painfully courteous, and not lacking in personal charm. He certainly made an impression on Ruacál, with seemingly-endless, flattering stories of what their son had so heroically accomplished during his Exile.
Still, there was something in his behaviour that rang false, and it went deeper than the polite reserve Laurefindil had described and admired. When the conversation turned to Laurefindil’s decision to sail back across the sea–a difficult choice Ecthelion already knew about, from the letters Laurefindil had left him–his words of approval for Laurefindil, and for his desire to do his duty, sounded like much-quoted lines from a heroic play.
Oh well. Her daughters would be coming tomorrow–it had taken only minimal coaxing for Ecthelion to agree to stay and meet them–and they would be full of curiosity, so they might be able to see something Loswë had missed. In the meantime, she needed to get the guest-room ready. While the men cleared away the dinner dishes, she fetched fresh linen and chose an appropriate painting for the art nook.
Ruacál brought their guest over just as she was adding the finishing touches: a vase of flowers and a jug of elderberry-water. She heard him say his goodbyes; then, Ecthelion walked in.
And froze in place, just a few steps into the room.
When Loswë looked up from her flower-arranging, she saw that what had arrested him was not, as she had assumed, her unexpected presence. No, he was staring straight at the painting she had chosen, an old watercolour of Laurefindil in the orchard.
“Ah,” he said when he noticed her scrutiny. “I… I do remember how– This must be from just before he went into exile. Or does he look like that, once more?”
She examined the picture. “No,” she said, a little surprised. “I mean, yes, in many ways he is exactly the same. He has not even changed his hair, unlike most of the Returned. And he still carries himself like one young and carefree.”
“He always did,” said Ecthelion. “Well, almost always. It is just… I cannot quite explain it. He never lost that smile, not even when we knew we were truly Doomed. But that picture reminds me of him when we first met. Before anyone knew him as Glorfindel.”
“You are quite right, it is an old picture. Well spotted.” She watched him admire it a little longer before adding, “I could show you a more recent one, if you would like?”
“I would,” he replied evenly, “truly appreciate that. If it is not too much trouble.”
“Not at all.” Loswë smiled at him. “Well, I will leave you to settle in.”
She smiled some more, at his formal thanks, then left and walked to her studio. The album where she collected her best pictures of her son lay where she had left it, on one of the window-seats. As she reached for it, she felt a twinge of doubt. The works she kept in it were private; it felt odd to share them with a near-stranger she knew only at second hand.
But sharing the pictures would not diminish them, she told herself. And Ecthelion’s wish to see more of Laurefindil had not been mere politeness, that much was clear. She picked up the album, cradling it against her chest, and headed back towards the guest-room.
Her first knock went unanswered. It was only once she knocked a second–and, she decided, final–time that she heard a clear “Come in!”
Given the delay, she had been expecting to find Ecthelion in some disarray – half-changed into sleeping clothes, perhaps, or in the middle of a pre-bedtime stretch. But no, he was exactly where she had left him: in front of the picture.
As she approached him, he rubbed at his face and blinked. She knew then that her decision to fetch the album had been the right one.
“Here, look,” she said, opening it to the last filled page: her quick sketch of Laurefindil as he waved goodbye from the rail of a ship sailing East.
Ecthelion looked. He made a small sound. His right hand rose up, towards the picture, then fell to his side.
After a moment, Loswë turned the pages for him. The second sketch was simpler: Laurefindil with his favourite horse, in charcoal. But the next one was a bright watercolour, showing him wearing his latest Summer Festival outfit. And laughing.
“I should apologise,” said Ecthelion suddenly. “I must be… tired from my journey.”
Was he asking to be left alone? Loswë could feel her face frown unkindly as she tore her eyes away from her work to look up at him.
His eyes were… glossy. She watched him run a hand across them.
“What exactly are you apologising for?” she asked.
He made a helpless gesture. “Making a scene? When you have been so… kind.”
“A scene?” An odd way to describe silent near-weeping. But perhaps the feelings it represented sounded far, far louder in his head. “You miss him. Greatly.”
“I–” Ecthelion blinked again, and smeared a hand across his cheek. “Yes. Of course I do. But also… it would be one thing if he were still in Mandos. Then I could simply wait until he is reborn. But as things are, well, I do not know if he will ever return.”
His pain was so clear that Loswë did not know how she could have missed it, at dinner. Her own pain heard it, and answered.
“He will,” she said. “He must. He promised.” She felt a sudden pang of guilt: she had seen, and spoken to Laurefindil, at least she had that. But Ecthelion might be able to have something even better. “Besides, as far as I know, you have the same skills. Perhaps you could ask to join him?”
“I have asked. Just as his letters suggested. But… I feel he may have been a little optimistic.” Ecthelion half-smiled, just for a moment. ”My request was met with surprise, and remains under review. Besides, even if the Powers agree in principle, the journey will not be easy, practically speaking. And then, if it proves impossible, I–”
She saw the years stretching before him as he must see them, strange and lonely. “If it proves impossible,” she said, “then you must come visit us often. After all, we are family now.”
Ecthelion stared at her. He opened his mouth to speak, and faltered. His arms came up to cross over his body.
Acting on impulse, Loswë held out her own arms towards him.
His first reaction was to step back, his eyes fixed on her hands. But then he took a step towards her, and another. His arms unwound as he walked into her embrace.
Hugging him felt somewhat, but not quite, like hugging Laurefindil. Probably because, while they were of a similar height and build, Ecthelion held onto her only lightly. Politely, she supposed, as she listened to his breathing, which had started out slightly ragged, grow slower and more even.
Her impulse had been the right one, she thought with growing fondness. He would take her up on her invitation to visit, she was quite certain. And she was fiercely glad of it.
When he finally shifted a little, she stepped back. “Sit down there,” she told him, indicating the couch. “We can start at the beginning.”
Ecthelion followed her suggestion, still looking a little lost.
She took her place beside him, and showed him the first few pages, which held baby-portraits. Oh, she had been so tired when drawing those! He looked at them with interest–but only a polite one. Clearly, the moment of open emotion was over. Loswë felt almost sorry for it, even if she understood now what Ecthelion’s careful reserve concealed.
But when she turned the page to her print of Small Child with His First Hairbrush, he laughed and touched the edge of the paper. She had seen that warm, fond look in his eyes before, in Laurefindil’s more personal sketches, but until that moment she had regarded it as artistic licence.
So, in all, it really did seem that Laurefindil had been right, about most things.