Chapter Text
The North Kingdom, spring, Third Age 2981
He hesitates then reaches up and pushes aside the tent flap. It is twilight, a cool spring evening with a million stars just beginning to gleam in the darkening sky. A sigh and he steps inside, lets the flap shut behind him, and the sounds and scents of the camp around him fall away. Inside, white candles are lit, a rare, precious commodity, the scent of beeswax filling the space. The golden candle light falls upon the figure laid out in his grey uniform with nary a scratch or rip or stain, sword at his side, hands folded on his chest and his grey cloak around his shoulders. The silver star pin seems radiant in the light of the candles. Grey hair, now clean, combed around his face with its myriad of wrinkles that have, in repose, fallen in pleasant places.
He looks peaceful.
Hand to his heart, Glorfindel bows low, giving his respect to his man he has fought with and laughed with and drank with and, yes, wept with. More than a comrade, he was a friend. Some friendships are made quickly; the clang of swords the grunts and furious cries of men, the solid slap of an arrow digging into a tree trunk a mere hairs width from his face and he regains his balance to look into the grey eyes of a Ranger. The Ranger who had just shoved him aside right before the arrow hit, who nods once, a grim smile curling his thin lips, who turns and re-enters the fray.
Bregalad, son of Breglad, son of….
He could, if he wished, remember. It isn’t important at the moment.
“Be at peace,” he murmurs and leans to press his lips to the cold, wrinkled forehead. Yes, he had been a friend. A brother in arms. War creates deep bonds between those who otherwise might have forever remained strangers.
The tent flap rustles and someone enters. Their sorrow is a heavy thing that creeps inside the tent with them and crouches at their heels, so real to him that, as he turns, he expects to see it there, leering at him from their side. He had expected to see Bregalad’s widow, but no.
Too young to be a daughter, or even grand-daughter, she hesitates as she sees him, red-rimmed eyes narrowing. Before she can speak, he steps away from table with the body, and bows. “I came only to pay my respects.”
Her gaze takes stock of the room before coming back to him. “Was he left alone? She is so careless of him!”
Anger often is easier to deal with than grief, and she lets it rise until it all but stirs a wind in the tent. Glorfindel stands unmoved as she flicks her skirt with one hand and strides up to examine the body as if expecting to see someone has disturbed it in her absence. The grief follows in her wake, a gleeful thing that has claws dug deep into the young soul.
“Did you see Ilmarien when you entered?”
“She had just stepped out as I was walking up, and I told her I would remain with him until she returned.”
The grey eyes narrow as they flick to him and away. “That is not your place.” Thin lips so like Bregalad’s, the proud nose, the eyes with flecks of blue rimmed in black. “Family must attend the dead.” Bending to smooth Bregalad’s cloak, she shoots a look from beneath sooty lashes, but cannot hold his gaze. “You’ve paid your respects, milord elf.” There is no respect in her voice. “Will you not leave those of us who truly must suffer in our dying to grieve as we may?”
He hears the dismissal in her words, hears the inaudible chortle of the grief still crouched there and nods. “Of course.”
Outside the tent, he takes in a deep breath of the cool air, and waits. He had told Bregalad’s widow he would remain and remain he will. The Watch has gone past only once when he sees Ilmarien hurrying towards him, and her brow furrows as she sees that he is standing outside the tent. Before she can say a word, he shakes his head at the outrage gathering there in her eyes. “I said my farewells then came out here to wait for you.”
Grey eyes narrowing, she glares at the tent flap as if she can see inside. “Oh, that little… She asked you to leave, didn’t she?” Then she looks to him and dismay overtakes her indignation. “My lord, on behalf of my family, I beg your forgiveness.”
Taking her hands, Glorfindel squeezes them. “I had already paid my respects. I was merely waiting for you to return.”
His kindness eases some of her tension and she sighs. “I am sorry if she was rude to you. You were a good friend to my husband.“
“Ilmarien, there is nothing to forgive.” He releases her hands. “If you need anything, let us know.”
She nods, a proud Dúnedain woman, her grey hair a crown braided about her head. “Thank you, Lord Glorfindel. You’re very kind.”
There is nothing more to say or do. Not now, not here. Glorfindel, hand to his chest, bows his head and turns to leave the family to their mourning. He tucks the information he has discovered that night away to share later with Aragorn. He will want to know that there is a faction of Bregalad’s family who, apparently, do not appreciate elvish interest in their affairs. Whether they’re involved in the deeper plots of overthrowing his governing will need to be investigated.
For Ilmarien and Bregalad’s sake, he hopes not, but nothing is certain in these dark times.
Not even the loyalty of the Dúnedain