((Shocker of shockers! I'm still alive! I'm still writing this story, even though it's been over a year and no one seems to be reading anything past "The Silver Barrier". If you happen to still be reading this, you could make this writer inordinately happy by telling me what you think of the weird bits, or even just saying "Hi"... I'm really sorry I'm not writing faster - I'm a big lazy flake, I know! Please don't let that turn you away!))

We arrived as the sun was breaking. Few sights have I beheld so glorious as that, before or since. It was as though the light had been distilled, like alcohol, and poured out like a libation into this bowl between the hills; and from the center of this rose a glittering, brilliant spire of crystal and gold - the city Gondolin, more incredible to behold than ever song recalled. I was as one deaf and dumb, paralysed by its beauty, and the pair of precautionary guards assigned to accompany us to the king laughed - not unkindly - as they moved past. Celegon pressed a gentle hand to my shoulder; I glanced up at him to see tears glistening in his good eye. Before we left, Glinellach the guard captain had questioned us both at length, and I learned that my travel companion had been in Morgoth's Iron Hell for almost thirty years. His joy at returning must have been indescribable. I took his hand. I had not words to convey how happy I was for him, so I didn't bother attempting to - my grip in his conveyed my feelings well enough. Together we walked across the farm-patchworked sward, hand in hand, and ascended the sparkling white stairs to the city.

Our object was the royal palace, where King Turgon himself was waiting to rule definitively on our freedom; whether we might remain in the city had been decided as soon as Glinellach apprehended us. All caution must be maintained. Ever since the betrayal of Eol and the death of Aredhel, the guards had explained, outsiders - and even returning citizens - were looked upon with mistrust. The king would judge our character and determine if we must live out our days in confinement, or be allowed range of the city unescorted. I admit I felt my prospects uninspiring. Not that I imagined Lord Turgon should find my moral calibre lacking; rather, I suspected it would be my sanity the king would dispute directly he examined me. I prayed that Celegon at least might keep his independence, for indeed if ever a man deserved to live under his own will, he I knew had earned that right.

Yet Turgon's wisdom had been remembered to me as a child, and so a hope persisted in me that my companion and I should both be granted unconditional movement within the valley - for if anyone could see the truth in my tale, surely a son of Fingolfin must.

Nervously I waited in the courtyard of the palace, agitated at the thought of imprisonment after all these years. By the time a young herald arrived announcing the king's presence, I had resumed that fitful, fearful shaking I'd once thought abandoned forever. Twitching, I rose. Shivering, I bowed low, not daring to meet King Turgon's eyes. The corner of a silver-blue robe moved into the frame of my vision, and the pale toe of a kid-leather boot.

"You are Vajralis of the Woodland Realm?" he asked.

Shuddering, I nodded.

"Rise," he said.

We spoke for many long hours. Celegon, he told me, he had already interviewed and seen fit to leave free; the man had long been a trusted soldier, and the king doubted not he should remain so. I, however, presented a greater quandary. With the last strongholds of the Noldor many years destroyed, he wondered how I could have come from anywhere but Morgoth's palace, and, as I showed no signs of torment, he was rightfully suspicious. I told him in full earnestness my tale. I showed him the canvas satchel and its zipper, Earnur's time-bleached head, the garish reflective "sneaker" shoes Marshall had given me in Yasnai, the ancient Gondolin blades I had carried since ere I first was captured and had somehow brought safe through Mordor and beyond. The zipper did not impress him, nor the skull, nor my shoes' rubber soles; but upon seeing the swords the king grew solemn and asked where I had got them from.

"My father gave them to me," I told him.

"I feel you speak true," he said, his face serious and old and terrible. "Have your liberty, then, Vajralis of Greenwood. Yet I do humbly ask one favour."

"Anything, my lord." I was too awed at the sudden fire of wisdom and regalness that wreathed his features to dare inquire first what he wished. Then he laughed a bit, his grey-blue eyes turned sad, and smiled. "I think that you may reconsider once you have heard my request, young miss, but I give you the right to refuse. I would have you grant me these swords you carry."

I glanced at the blades, bewildered. A pair of swords not much longer than knives, bright but battered - these were to ransom me? Gondolin blades they were, oh yes, but poor and mean ones in comparison with those I now saw girding every man I passed. Even the pale goblin-light that should have warned me of many a danger had never graced their steel. Defective, my father had told me in my youth. And much use they'd served me, who proved too craven to strike a blow against even my weakest captors! In bemusement I held them towards the king. "Take them, sir," said I. "They are yours. I only ask, in curiosity, if my lord might tell why he places such value in these simple knives?"

He smiled - a kindly, grandfatherly smile - and said, "Pure sentiment, my young elf-maid. They were mine once, then lost - given me in my childhood that I might learn the art of war. They remember me a happier time, ere Morgoth cloaked this world in shadow and the Kinslayer spake his cursed oath. You, child, who have known nothing but this veiled earth - you cannot understand how sweetly your generosity touches me."