Lavender and Ink
Glorfindel, through the eyes of his lord.
Note: Glorfindel, Elrond, and any other recognizable persons, places, or tragedies belong to the estate of J. R. R. Tolkien, not me.
Dedicated to Pachelbel, who asked for Glorfindel fic.
He smells of lavender and ink, this singer and scribe. No more is he the fey golden warrior who stood and fought upon the Eagles' Cleft, who fell to save those whose fate he would never know. There is dirt from the gardens under his nails, rich and wholesome, on hands that have forgotten the heat and smear of blood. He has grown younger in this age of the world, released a little from the cares of his past. He no longer mourns by the fountain in the courtyard; he does not turn away from fire or the distant mountains.
But most beautiful are his eyes, bright and clear as starlight on water. When he first came to Imladris those eyes were haunted and dim, eyes that had seen too much of darkness. It has taken many years in our care, but he is hale again, sound in body and mind. He speaks, he laughs—he sings. His past haunts him no more.
But neither is that past gone fully from him. I know there is a war to come; I feel it like a storm in the east. Loath am I to ask my seneschal to take up sword, though he would fight with the grace and the fell rage of the Firstborn. For when that fury cools, I know I must see again the shadows behind his eyes, the empty isolation of one hardened by sorrow.
Like a rock that tears at a ship's grey hull, his memories lie close to the surface, and they shall not sleep forever. This illusion of youth will pass; his memories are too strong to suppress.
Sometimes he still calls me Eärendil.