Work Text:
Glorfindel did not know why he was at the graveyard. He had arrived at Imladris only a few days ago and although the Homely House had more than reinvigorated his body, his spirit remained woefully exhausted. For even though it was more than a thousand years since his return to the world of the living, he had scarcely had a moment to himself. He had come to a world at war with little time for peace and reflection and he was still unused to joy.
He had just left the birthing chambers, where Elrond’s two little sons, dark haired with stars in their eyes, were resting on their exhausted mother’s breast. Glorfindel, though he was gladdened by his Lord’s joy, had escaped as soon as he was able for even now, surrounded by such felicity, he felt the need for peace.
He did not know why his steps had led him to the graveyard of all places. To be sure, it was beautiful, as places of the dead went and kept in scrupulous order. Almost every grave was overgrown with a multitude of flowers and token, gifts from those the departed had left behind. There were windchimes at the entrance, tinkling with gentle music as the breeze blew through. But more than that, there was an ancient, perfect peace here, where sorrow and grief were buried deep under the earth. The denizens of Imladris honored their dead and did not choose to sully their resting place with overt grief, knowing that the souls of their dear ones were now in Mandos and reunion would one day be possible.
Glorfindel had meant to wander the graveyard alone, to puzzle out the names on crumbled stone and read the epitaphs, memorials of days long gone by. But near a gnarled oak tree, he espied Erestor, the Chief Counselor of Imladris. But then, he reasoned, Erestor had had a busy day and perhaps sought peace as well. He moved to leave when Erestor caught sight of him.
Glorfindel felt a quickening in his chest at the counselor’s smile. He had long known the counselor, from the days they had worked together in service of Gil-galad. Erestor had been one of the refugees of Ost-in-Edhil and when Glorfindel, part of the rescue party after the dreadful destruction of the city, first saw him, he had been nearly blinded by grief. Yet, Glorfindel remembered thinking, even with tears and grime streaking his face and dirt and blood lining his clothes, he was beautiful.
“You are here for peace too?” Erestor asked, smiling. “Forgive me, I should leave.”
“No, no,” Glorfindel said. “It is I who should go. You were here first.”
They stared at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Then Erestor suddenly laughed and said, “If you so insist, I do not see why we can’t stay here together. Come in.”
Glorfindel walked in. The whole experience felt surreal. To walk with the Chief Counselor of Imladris in a graveyard!
He stopped in front of a large, ugly statue that seemed to be created of the most hideous gaudy, decorative carvings known to Elfkind. It was undoubtedly the largest tombstone in the place. Erestor looked curiously at him and said, “You are wondering about the statue? It is rather gaudy. This is where Ailios is buried. He and his brother Durion had the most dreadful rivalry. Before he died of an orc knife to his side, he made his wife promise to put up the largest, grandest tombstone she could find to show up his brother. Durion died about fifty years later in a raid. He tried to make his wife make him a bigger tombstone too, but she was a severe, conservative elleth and thought he was being ridiculous. That’s his grave over there.”
Glorfindel looked to where Erestor pointed and saw a stone that was well-made and eminently sensible. “You seem to know a great deal about these people.”
Erestor smiled a little sadly. “I have been in Imladris from the beginning, you know, I was Elrond’s side when he lay the first stone. I know almost everyone now lying under.”
“Forgive me, I brought up bad memories for you.”
“Oh no,” Erestor shook his head. “The hurt faded away a long time ago and I remember and take joy in their lives now. In any case, the parting is only temporary. I shall be reunited with most of my old friends in Aman.”
This at least Glorfindel knew for certain. He turned to say something of that vein, but Erestor had already moved on, now standing by a grave abloom with pink roses.
“This is Minuial’s grave,” Erestor said, looking up, “Do you know Carwen, one of Celebrian’s ladies? Minuial was her mother, killed in the Last Alliance. Carwen still keeps her grave well-tended.”
“The Last Alliance?” Glorfindel asked. “Was that not… far from here?”
“We took what bodies we could to Imladris to allow the ones left behind to properly mourn their lost ones. See – here is another who was lost in that fatal war. Gerion, he was so young, recently married and full of hope. I still remember him as he was that last time, bright, fearless, with a sword too big for him, and the promise of glory in his eyes. Well, he found glory certainly, but he also found death.”
At this, Glorfindel looked sharply at Erestor, but there was no bitterness on his face, only soft remembrance of the brave youth. Memories assailed Glorfindel as well, for he had known many such as Gerion, from the Helcaraxe to the Nirnaeth to Gondolin. Suddenly he stopped, for he espied a familiar, a name he had known long ago in Gondolin.
Erestor looked questioningly at him.
Glorfindel shook his head and said, “I know this one. Faeriel, she made me my arms in Gondolin, I did not she had come here.”
“I remember her. She never spoke much of Gondolin, but I gather she loved it greatly. She was a most talented steelsmith. She was slain by bandits on a journey to Lothlorien.”
“I did not know she survived the Sack,” Glorfindel said softly. It was an odd feeling in his breast.
Erestor interrupted his thoughts with a soft exclamation. “This is Nimarian’s grave! Nimarian was the light of the House in its infancy. She was always laughing and singing. She loved Imladris with all her heart. Everyone mourned her death. She died on the same journey as Faeriel. Sometimes I feel that some nights, her spirit must slip out of Mandos and dance in the gardens as she used to.”
This was mere fancy, but Glorfindel said nothing. He knew only too well that nothing escaped Mandos.
“Meltoron is here. You know, I am not sure that he is in Valinor.”
“Whyever not?” Glorfindel asked startled.
“He despised his brother, Laersul, and said once that he would never go where Laersul went. Laersul ended up dying before him and Meltoron was never one to back down on what he said.”
Glorfindel stooped down before a grave. “’Sacred to the memory of Roh.’ How extraordinary. Surely that was not his real name?”
Erestor laughed. “Nobody knows. He entered Elrond’s service as a scribe in the early years and gave his name as Roh and that was what we called him. He was a most dutiful and true Elf. When he died, it was discovered that not a single person knew his full name and he had no relations that anyone knew of.”
“Allyrion is buried here. You know the Assistant Librarian, Calamir? Allyrion was his brother and much more interesting as well. He always had a story to tell. That last patrol he went on before he died – he called me beforehand and told me that he knew he was to be slain in the morn of the next day, but that was no reason to have a real good chat beforehand. I thought he was being ridiculous since he said it with such a scapegrace smile, but true to form, there was an orc attack the next morning and he was the only warrior killed.”
Erestor kept on talking, but Glorfindel felt his thoughts wander. He wondered about his own grave, surely hidden now under the waves of the unforgiving sea. He knew he had become a legend after his death, but he wondered whether anyone remembered him as Erestor remembered all of these people who had lived, and dreamed, and sinned, and died.
Eresotr suddenly took his arm and led him out of the graveyard. The look he gave Glorfindel was almost too understanding. “Come, we have lingered too long with ghosts tonight. Let us go back to the living.”
Glorfindel took a deep breath and went, his gaze lingering on Erestor, allowing himself to appreciate the counselor’s beauty. It was peacetime and the dead told tales of what was lost. Glorfindel meant to make the most of what he had before he too was drawn under the inexorable waves of Time.