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Of all the things Glorfindel had expected to come across on this seemingly normal day, patrolling the wastelands of Arnor, it wasn’t a group of slavers, dragging behind them a Dwarf, bound waist-to-neck with wire.
For a long moment, he’s frozen still. Are they—They most certainly are slavers. The young Dwarf is currently their only captive, but they have the look about them, an even split between calculated psychopathy and comfortable sadism. It takes a very specific type of mind to torture someone in such an off-hand, efficient manner. Blood covers the Dwarf from head to toe, and while he still walks, every step is a torment. They don’t even spare him a glance, happy to enjoy the clear weather. The handful on the right are practically children themselves, humans barely outside of teenage years, fresh-faced and merry. The sun glimmers in their hair and their eyes are light with good humour. All the while, their victim is left to stumble half-blindly, gagged and bleeding.
Well.
He falls on them without preamble. In a way, the group was supremely unlucky on this day. There aren’t many of his kin that are so thoroughly at ease with ending a life. Noldor have always been too sensitive, and Sindar too philosophical to write practically anyone off.
Glorfindel of the Golden Towers has killed untold numbers of people by now. Elves, Humans, Dwarves, even a Hobbit or two. Thusfar, he’s spent more time regretting the people he hadn’t killed, that he should have, instead of the reverse. One of the core unifying traits among civilized peoples is their propensity towards casual monstrousness.
There are twenty-one targets when he engages. The scouts fall first, without having had the chance to shout for help. They can hardly put up any meaningful resistance. Out of the whole group, only half-dozen is even armed properly, and for all their evil, not one appears to be properly trained. They must have overwhelmed the Dwarf by numbers, or set up on him in an unguarded moment—Durin-folk are hardy fighters.
He wouldn’t shout, speak or curse, even if he were the type. He must finish this as efficiently as possible. One—two—four—six. Seven and Eight are Dwarves, disgustingly, and he makes sure to be extra thorough with them. Nine, Ten and Eleven fall as easily as leaves, which is when the sorry trash thinks to run.
He doesn’t chase them. He doesn’t need to. No Elf would, when his targets are clumsy and slow and stupid. His bow sings, the melody matching the thunder in his ears. Twelve—thirteen—fourteen. Fifteen is clever enough to try to run for the cover of nearby trees. He gets an arrow to the back of the knee, followed by another to the throat when he stumbles. Sixteen, seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen and Twenty run in a zig-zag pattern, thinking, foolishly that the distance plus the change in pace will help them. Considering their armour is cheap boiled leather, Glorfindel doesn’t bother with finesse. He pulls his bow as taut as it can go and watches as the arrows punch straight through their rib-cages, only brought to a stop by the drag of the fletching. Twenty-one is—He takes a moment to find Twenty-one who, in a strange twist of inspiration, fell down to the ground and held still, hoping, foolishly, Glorfindel would think him dead. The angle is unpleasant, he allows, as he jogs toward the still figure, trembling on the ground. The man tries to beg, as they often do, but Glorfindel has heard enough fear-lies for a hundred lifetimes. Twenty-one dies quick and relatively painless, overall, spine cut clean through. He shouldn’t have even felt the pain. How many of your victims were afforded such?
The worst part is, he thinks, as his heart slowly returns to where it should be, is that he’s not even angry. Well, he corrects himself, that is not true. He’s blindingly angry, but he’s not surprised. Glorfindel ranges, but he is not a ranger. Being a ranger would suggest he answers to a leader. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t even allow a farce of it. Not after Turgon. Nor after Gil-galad. He does patrol, as often as he can, because there is only so much time he can spend in Imladris before his heritage starts making him itchy and people around him nervous. Most notably Elrond who would rather stab himself in the eye than call himself Glorfindel’s Lord.
No, life in their shiny, white tomb, designed to ease the passage of those who already decided life on Middle Earth is penitence that must be endured, isn’t for him. Glorfindel is as prone to falling into separation-grief as any Elf, but he is Vanyar before he is anything. He would rather fall on his blade and seek forgiveness in death than lobotomize himself and wait for the time when he might be welcomed back home. Granted, the Valar could just shunt him back to this cursed place yet again—
What useless paths your mind takes you down, on the slightest provocations? Contemplating life’s struggles is never far from his mind, and that is as it should be, but there is a time and a place. This is not a typical battlefield, where you can allow melancholy to run its course. You have a soul to save, and that is a rare enough occurrence that it deserves your whole attention. Move, soldier, you have a wounded Dwarf to release.
The Dwarf fell to his knees at some point during the slaughter and watches Glorfindel’s approach with a wild look in his—rather lovely—eyes. On the upside, he thinks, a little desperately, at least the Dwarf isn’t broken by the torture. Not one line in his body is submissive or intimidated. Even kneeling down, bleeding from—
—Eru’s mercy—
The miserable wretches tied the Dwarf with barbed wire. No wonder he—Stop right there, because if you touch that Dwarf without his express permission, you will have to spend a century in meditation and repentance. Calm yourself, lackwit, and offer the young Dwarf his due respect.
“Hail, warrior,” he says, trying and failing to keep the horror from his voice. “Can you understand me?”
Blue-eyes nods, slow and guarded. The cloth gag is rather primitive, but judging by the scabbed-over flesh beneath, it’s been there for some time. How have they even fed—
Never mind.
“My name is Glorfindel, of the Golden Towers. I would untie you, friend. May I?”
Nod.
“Thank you.” He bows low, lower than he would offer any Elf Lord or Lady. The Dwarf just watched him execute twenty-odd people, slavers or not. He needs to communicate his relative harmlessness somehow. “The gag?”
Nod, slower this time. The Dwarf is kneeling in the dirt, and even that is done in a defiant manner. Look at me, say the blue eyes. Look at me and bow.
Durin-folk. Fierce as the dawn, every last one of them.
“Thank you,” he repeats. He takes a step further and pauses. How to do this? Glorfindel, like it or not, is bred to be the tallest Elf around, Avari not included. He would tower over his Dwarven friend even if he were standing. If the Dwarf is kneeling—
“One moment.” He drops to his knees and sits back, tucking his feet under him. The heels cut into his ass, the hilts of the knives tucked in the back dig into his ankles and calves. Well, what did you think would happen, fool? He twists, crossing his feet into a wider seat, feet tucked lightly under his knees. Much better.
The Dwarf takes in his idiotic struggles with something as straightforward as sitting down with both eyebrows arched. Very expressive eyebrows, he notes, not hiding his curiosity. Upon closer inspection, the Dwarf is not as young as he appeared. There are a few slashes of grey scattered through his hair, and his skin is sun-kissed in a way that has become depressingly common on Durin-folk in recent decades.
“My apologies, friend. My mind is not what it once was. A few millennia here and there will do that to an Elf. Here, if you would be so kind to tilt your head to the side? It will be simpler to cut this.”
The Dwarf obliges without a huff or a twitch of protest. With how close Glorfindel is, it becomes apparent he is not simply sun-kissed, but flushed red, eyes glassy from the beginnings of a fever.
The first real inklings of fear trickle down his back. Glorfindel is no healer. He knows how to bind a wound, how to apply standard field dressings. What to do after an infection has already set in, would be better left in the purview of more qualified souls.
“There we go.”
The poor Dwarf’s face is likely quite lovely, underneath all the contusions, cuts and scrapes. It’s hard to tell, but the ridge of the brows and the straight, somewhat narrow nose would be memorable in other circumstances. Not what he’s come to expect in Durin-folk, admittedly, who prize wider features and lighter skin- and hair-tones, but Glorfindel is old enough to know beauty very rarely has anything to do with physical appearance.
“Can you drink?” Upon reflection, it’s convenient that the Dwarf hasn’t attempted to speak before Glorfindel poured water down the poor abused throat. “Just a mouthful or two, and then we see about cutting you out of—” Easy with your tone. “Your bonds.”
A nod, even hazier than the last. If the Dwarf doesn’t pass out the moment Glorfindel is done with the damn wire, it will be a miracle. Does that matter? Who knows what wounds he carries. Being unconscious through the cleaning of them could prove a mercy.
“Excellent. Here we go—” Best go for miruvor. Every bit will help, even if experience has taught him Dwarves have no fondness for Elven enchantments. Tough. “One, breathe, excellent, thank you. Two—perfect—and—three.”
The process goes smoothly enough, certainly better than what he’d feared. The Dwarf is lost in shock and pain, the wire is still inches deep in him, but he drinks eagerly and without needing any assistance. Glorfindel will take his wins where he can get them.
“Excellent,” he lies. None of this is excellent, but he can pretend for a little while longer. “I—we must remove the wire, but—” He pauses, inhales, goes for focus. It works well enough, for the circumstances. Ai, but he hates torture. “My camp is not far. I have supplies there. Bandages, clean water, spirits to clean your wounds, thread to sew the worst of them shut. Some salves. We can do it here, or I can perhaps carry you—”
In hindsight, the Dwarf’s outraged huff was to be expected. Glorfindel is rusty, admittedly. It has been a few decades since he’s been around Durin-folk, ever since Elrond’s fool self—
Never mind that. Focus.
“Now,” says the Dwarf. It must hurt horribly to speak, but even through the rasp and the cracks, the depth and richness of the voice is stunning. All Dwarves sing, it’s in their blood, and this one must be magnificent.
“Very well. Let us start from the top.”
There is no gentle way to unwrap a body bound tightly in barbed wire, chosen and applied specifically to hurt. The Dwarf’s torso is littered with puncture wounds. They’re not debilitatingly deep, not more than an inch at most, and the spikes were narrow enough that he likely won’t lose much mobility after he heals. With that said, it is imperative the Dwarf doesn’t try to move his much-abused muscles. Which is exactly what he does, the first chance he gets.
“Easy,” he says, yelps, really. “Easy, my friend. Try to move as little as possible, I implore you. Your damage is far from insignificant, Master Dwarf, and you will only do yourself harm if you continue.”
The Dwarf snarls, but exhaustion weighs on his eyelids, slackens the muscles around his jaw. He must feel the truth of Glorfindel’s words in the scream of his muscles and the torrent of blood that pours over him. Yes, he thinks, the wounds will heal, if the bloodless doesn’t kill him first.
“Please,” he begs, bowing his head, letting fear shine from his eyes. “Please, let me assist you. My camp is minutes away, just behind the next thicket. You must not hurt yourself more, I cannot bear it.”
“Fine,” says the Dwarf. “I will walk.”
Before Glorfindel has the time to think of a more persuasive argument, the Dwarf lurches to his feet, sways, and falls unconscious. He catches the falling body entirely on instinct and is struck with the urge to laugh and cry and sigh in exasperation.
No time to waste. Your Dwarf certainly can’t afford it.
As if it wasn’t clear before, it is certainly is now. Glorfindel is wildly unqualified for the situation he’s found himself in. Cuts, bruises. A broken collar bone. Three ribs are either bruised or, more likely, broken. Internal bleeding is almost guaranteed if those contusions are any indication, and that’s all before he takes in the hundreds of thin stab wounds, each leaking precious lifeblood.
He does what he can, which is next to nothing. If the Dwarf makes it to the morning, it will be a miracle. He sits down and settles into a long meditation. Grief must be given its due, so he might as well get a head start. The pointless misery of this will haunt him for centuries either way, but managing it is not beyond him. A miracle would be welcome, but he is much too old to hope. The Dwarf at least gets to die free. That is not nothing.
The Dwarf lives through the night—a miracle with a twist. He doesn’t wake, doesn’t stir, and all Glorfindel can do is pour some water and thin broth down his throat and wait. His unlikely companion met one impossible challenge, but more lie ahead. The sun barely sets on the second day, when the inevitable fever makes itself known. Pockets of infection litter the Dwarf’s body, puncture wounds swelling up with pus. He cleans them with diluted spirits and warm water, slathers them with what salve he has. In normal circumstances, he would be wary of contamination. Since the foul metal has had ample time to spread its poison, he can’t see the value in sewing the wounds shut. Surely that would only trap the poison inside? As long as the body seems capable of ejecting the foul stuff itself, the least Glorfindel can do is assist in draining it.
The first battle has been won, but the war has just begun. The Dwarf is besieged on all sides, enemies have made their way into the walls. Glorfindel can do little more than watch and provide what trivial care he can. Well—he could move. He could take the Dwarf and ride to the nearest village, seek some trained help. He doesn’t dare to, not yet, not when the shock of it could settle the matter in a decisive fashion.
There are no easy choices for Glorfindel, twice-born. For now, he waits.
His supplies last for a week, and still, the Dwarf lives. For all the Glorfindel knows he is a fool to hope, he can’t help it. Doesn’t know how. With each day that his Dwarf—the Dwarf—lives, his traitorous heart warms. Perhaps—Perhaps—
The choice has been taken from his hands, at least. Glorfindel is out of miruvor and diluting his spirits will soon start robbing them of function. They must move—but where? Imladris? The Dwarf will not thank him for it. Lorien is less politically charged, but Lady Galadriel is no healer. Elrond would help, would heal any living being brought to him, but is that—Imladris is closer. If the Dwarf wants to leave immediately, Glorfindel will damn-well carry him himself to wherever his heart desires. On the other hand, Imladris is a week away on horseback, with few pauses made along the way. His Dwarf could survive halfway, perhaps, before the exhaustion will finish what the infection started.
A vague direction towards Imladris, while making stops in every village along the way is an acceptable compromise. His unasked for status is good for some things. He has enough gold with him to buy a tavern every time they stop and have plenty leftover. A lot of good that will do his Dwarf, since there is no competent care on offer, no matter the incentive.
A bit more, brave-heart. Don’t let your strength fail you now.
Fornost is their best bet. The roads are practically non-existent this far north, and as gentle as his Levi is, she is a warhorse. They’ve been together for three years now, more than long enough that they communicate painlessly. Considering Glorfindel needs both arms to hold his precious cargo close to his chest, they depend on her intelligence and resourcefulness to get them where they need to be.
It pains him to have to make camp in the dilapidated ruins. Mannish Kings fall like leaves, and civilizations rise and fall before Glorfindel finishes his tea, seems like. Fornost was abandoned almost as easily as it was populated, and while he is sympathetic to their struggles against the weight of Angmar, it is not lost on him that the Kings and Lords escaped quite painlessly. The common folk didn’t have that luxury. The Lords escaped with their horses and swords in more than sufficient numbers to settle new lands one way or another. Those who lived by their farmlands died on them, and nobody seems to much mind that state of affairs.
Levi barely rests through the night, just as restless as her rider. The air is thick with misery, and nature seems reluctant to claim back the space, no matter the centuries between then and now. Glorfindel is, if anything, partial to ruins fully overtaken with wildlife. It reminds him that every end is a chance for new stories to begin, stories often magnitudes more beautiful than the ones that came before. He’s not enjoying Fornost. His Dwarf takes precedent, of course, but he will tear out of this place as soon as he possibly can.
A man can ride from Fornrost to Bree in two days. Levi can make the trip in one. His Dwarf demands the trip take ten days at the very least. Eru’s light shines bright, because several farming families live along the way, and are more than willing to accept Glorfndel’s gold in return for shelter, warmth and food. They’re humans, for the most part, a rebellious Halfling scattered here and there, but there is no ill-will or greed in their eyes when they lay eyes on Glorfindel’s companion. By now, the Dwarf lost all weight he had available to lose, and loose skin hangs off his frame in grotesque folds. His heart beats strong throughout, which is the only thing Glorfindel cares to know. For two dozen days his Dwarf beat the odds, drove back the enemy with nothing but the strength of spirit. Weight is easily regained and muscle is easily re-trained. Quite obviously, the Dwarf has stronger ties to this world than his ephemeral enemy is prepared to face. They will make it through this yet.
Bree-guard would likely forbid him entry if they dared. Considering there were no convenient farms on which to beg for shelter, Glorfindel had to choose between riding through the night and camping in the forest. This close to a somewhat competent healer, he chose the former. The dawn sees him riding full-speed, keeping himself up by his thighs on Levi’s back so as to keep the ride for his Dwarf as smooth as can be managed. His best efforts are, as is so often the case, laughably insufficient. His Dwarf is covered in blood, some new, some old, and plenty of it has transferred on Glordfinel and Levi.
If he were a gentler soul, he’d reassure the stuttering men, offer words of comfort or coin to distract them. Being who he is, the delay infuriates him to the point of losing a little of his grip on his aura. Nobody dares stand in his way then, even if they could see him clearly through the pretentious light.
The healer is a creaky old man, husband to a wise woman that passed away recently, if memory serves. He is—far less than what his Dwarf deserves, but far more than what Glorfindel can give him.
“Spare no expense. Ask for what you need, and I will procure it. His infection—it worries me.”
“I can see that, m’lord,” says the old man. “You’re right to worry. This is beyond me. Your best bet is Felicity Fairweather nee Took, up in Hobbiton. She’s a deft hand with farming injuries, and this fellow looks like he fell off the barn roof, right into an old steel heap. I’m telling you, she can cure rust-rot like she was Yavanna herself.”
A lead at least. The man stuffs his Dwarf full of willow-bark tea, covers him with honey and yarrow, and plenty of clean bandages on top. “Make him drink more, bone-broth soup and cream of wheat porridge. Fairweather will know more.”
A little ashamed at his terse demeanour, he makes sure to settle the debt with gold. Gauche, yes, and high-handed, but men live quickly and have little use for pretty words. Perhaps that will be enough for the man to relocate to less dismal settlements than Bree.
Some enterprising soul sends word of Glorfindel’s arrival because a score of terrified Halflings wait for him on the border.
“I seek Mistress Fairweather,” he says as evenly as he can. Most Elves he knows instinctively treat Halflings with more gentleness than they would afford another race. Glorfindel was tempted until he saw what the gentle race was capable of doing to their own if the circumstances allowed. He hadn’t had the urge, since. Hobbits are no better and no worse than any other race when it comes down to it. “My companion requires her aid.”
“And you will leave when you’re done?” Asks the seeming leader. “Strangers are not welcome in the Shire.”
“On my honour. I will stay within the confines of the space you designate for my use. My presence will not disturb the peace.”
“Alright,” nods the Halfling, sounding like he is convincing himself. “We will take you to Healer Fairweather’s clinic.”
The force of the Hobitess’ conviction puts the worst of his worries to rest. She’s not the least bit impressed with Glorfindel either, which is a balm on its own. The girl-child can’t be more than fifty, and yet she tries—and fails—to shoo him out of the room like he’s an Elfling barely out of his third century.
Morgoth himself couldn’t rip his Dwarf from his grasp. He doesn’t stand in the healer’s way, but he stays within touching distance. She is talented and devoted, but Glorfindel spent the night in Fornost for his Dwarf. She can deal.
Something guards the Shire, that is both alike and sharply different from Elrond’s pacifying magics. It’s almost perverse, how peaceful this little oasis of small-minded wholesomeness is, compared to the horrors surrounding it. Would the whole world be like this, if the Elves, Dwarves, Orcs and Humans finally had enough and died out? If they finally fought that one final War and killed each other off, leaving the Hobbits to live in peace?
They can keep it, he thinks uncharitably. Glorfindel would choose death in a heartbeat if the alternative was this thick, hazy peace, where bad weather and your neighbour’s ill-will is your only source of concern.
Healer Fairweather is as magical as her homeland. It’s as if she takes the infection away by the handful, each time she cleans, lances and re-dresses the wounds. Glorfindel’s Dwarf spends as much time in a bath full of miscellaneous herbs and plants than he does in his own bed, but he’s gained two pounds in a week and his breathing is finally unobstructed. Glorfindel helps, once the Healer realizes he is not too proud to fulfil each task she puts in front of him if he doesn’t have to leave the Dwarf’s side.
Her neighbours provide food. Glorfindel doesn’t see a soul as days pass them by, but hot bowls and pots are left on the doorstep once every two hours, from sun-up to sun-down. How they’re supposed to eat even a fraction of it is anyone’s guess, but commenting on it would surely be the height of rudeness.
All in all, Glorfindel spends three weeks in the Shire, and summer begins to turn into autumn by the time the Healer proclaims his Dwarf will wake within the day.
In keeping with the flow of events, Glorfindel’s Dwarf lurches out of bed without warning, knocking Healer Fairweather away, instinctively going for his weapons. His wounds are, after five weeks of rest, almost fully healed. The breaks aren’t quite yet, on the other hand, and Glorfindel really should jump into action to immobilize the Dwarf.
He doesn’t, mind completely empty, staring at the Dwarf in blank shock. It’s not that he hadn’t hoped, he did, desperately so, but hope was one thing. Seeing a miracle happen before your eyes—
“Oh, well done,” he breathes, swallowing down the lump in his throat somewhat successfully. “Well done, my friend. Look at you, hale and healthy, like nothing had happened at all.”
The Dwarf falls back on his bed, emaciated body nowhere near strong enough to hold him past the initial burst of adrenaline. “Like nothing had—what had happened? Who are you? Where am I?”
“You are in Hobbiton, Master Dwarf” snarls the Healer, scrambling up from the floor with a furious scowl on her face. She’s got quite a wide array of scowls, does Healer Fairweather. “Now if you would be so kind to not undo weeks of my hard work, not to mention all the hours of pointless fretting by your oversized friend, we’d be off to the dances.”
“My—what? Friend? Hobbiton—What?”
Eru’s light, Glorfindel knew there was a striking Dwarf in there somewhere. The swelling has long since gone down, but nobody can look beautiful in their sickbed. Now that he’s awake and using his flashing eyes and rumbling voice to full effect, he’s a sight to behold.
Oh. Oh, no.
“I had brought you here, Master Dwarf, some weeks ago. We crossed paths a little to the north of Lake Evendim.” He pauses—Dwarves aren’t known for stellar orientation above-ground. Perhaps a more familiar landmark? “Hills of Evendium?”
The Dwarf stares, wide-eyed and far too disoriented to act with suspicion that is usually offered to members of the Eldar by Durin-folk. “You—you rescued me? I was—they took me—before—” The pauses between words grow longer, as the Dwarf’s strength vanes and sleep rushes in to fill the space left by panic. “Sun-Elf—” Is the last mumbled speech fragment that escapes him before he eases back into unconsciousness.
“Hold on,” says Healer Fairweather, puffing out in outrage. “You—He—You don’t even know this Dwarf, you don’t even know his name, and still you insist on making yourself a pest? Out, out you overgrown weed!”
Glorfindel blinks, still caught in the unexpected storm of events and barely keeping his useless heart from bursting in joy. “My apologies, Healer, I was lost in thought. What did you—” He cycles back through her words with half a mind. “Oh, dear. I am sorry, but that is out of the question. There exists no force on Arda that would make me leave. Not a one. I do appreciate your work, but Eru himself wouldn’t get me to leave now that my Dwarf can wake at any moment.”
“Bah,” she spits, small hands checking over the Dwarf’s body with sure, practised movements. “Men, all the same, no matter the species. Fine, be useless. Loom over the Dwarf to your fool heart’s content. Just stay out of my way, and call for me the moment he wakes.”
“Of course, Healer.”
Unlike the torturously slow drag of the first five weeks, the following three go by in a blink. The Dwarf—Thorin—recovers at such a breakneck speed that Glorfindel would suspect Maiar interference if he wasn’t there every step of the way. His lucidity is the first thing to return, a sharp mind making itself known very clearly and with great relish. Glorfindel certainly relishes it, drinks in every snap of temper and show of impatience.
He can’t say he is very surprised at how quickly and thoroughly he got attached to his Dwarf. Even if they met in normal circumstances, Glorfindel would have likely found him spectacular. Brought together like this, having had the time to learn the beat of his heart and the texture of his hair, he really had no chance. Elves love easily and fully, and while some have grown clever about steeling their hearts, about erecting walls as impassable as those around Valinor, Glorfindel never had. What would be the point? Surely, to love is the only counterbalance to the otherwise miserable, painful trek through an unwise, uncaring world? Unlike most of his kin, he fell in love whenever he could, without reservations or second thoughts. Typically, nothing came out of it. Only very rarely were his infatuations reciprocated, and trying to influence the matter one way or another seemed counterproductive. It doesn’t help that he had only ever been drawn to those who aren’t impressed with him in the slightest.
Thorin certainly doesn’t think much of him. He knows who Glorfindel is—the spark of recognition was unmistakable, but he doesn’t let age-old battles influence his opinion. What’s a Balrog slain in comparison to the irritating way Glorfindel insists Thorin must eat twice on the hour? What’s one measly reincarnation, when the constant worrying is driving Thorin to distraction?
Needless to say, Glorfindel is delighted by it all. Admittedly, he sits through Thorin’s monologues, wondering at the unfathomable way light refracts through the blue of his eyes, and the irresistible way his jaw twitches when he’s peeved, but that’s surely his right. He’s being fairly subtle about it—certainly subtle enough to prevent detection by Thorin which is all he aspires to. Healer Fairweather grows even more disgusted by him, miraculously, but she lets it be, doesn’t intervene one way or the other. Capable healer or not, she’s just as eager to see them go as Thorin is to return to his people.
Which happens on the two-month mark since they arrived at Hobbiton. Glorfindel’s gold was refused with enough rancour to scare a fire-drake away, but Thorin could out-stubborn a river. He hides the gold under his mattress and in the cracks in between the floorboards, only to whirl around and snarl that he doesn’t appreciate the assumption and that he will be repaid in full. Glorfindel only nods, shocked into a besotted silence at the way Thorin’s hair cuts through the air and the healthy hue of his cheeks. His Dwarf is still gaunt, still much too thin for his Craft—Blacksmithing, as if he wasn’t impressive enough—but not even Healer Fairweather can restore a Dwarf to full health in two months. Thorin is stronger than he has the right to be, considering.
“To Ered Luin, then,” he says, brushing Levi’s coat and stopping himself from cooing at the fetching little pony named Peach that Healer Fairweather acquired in his name. “I would suggest re-supplying in Bree, even though it’s not on our way. The men there are much too cowardly to refuse me service, and they typically have passingly decent wares available.”
Some of the tension seeps out of Thorin’s shoulders at his off-hand slight to the moral character of Bree-folk, which certainly doesn’t endear the fools to Glorfindel any. It would stand to reason that a town who is so fearful—resentful—of an Elf, would treat Dwarven travellers as badly as they can get away with.
“Bree,” spits Thorin. “Bah.” Easy, Glorfindel. Yes, Thorin picked that up straight from Healer Fairweather, and yes, it’s devastating, but that is not enough to burst into song here and now. “Fine. I need a sword and some metal between me and the world. The smiths in Bree are incompetent fools, but there should be a stall with Dwarven wares that would justify stepping foot in the place.”
Bree-folk aren’t happy to see Thorin, but they’re even less happy he’s accompanied by Glorfindel. The guards let them through without protest and while he is happy enough to throw his gold at the greedy merchants to spare himself the hassle, Thorin takes it upon himself to haggle far past the point of reason. The whole process reeks of retribution, especially the way fury never stops twisting Thorin’s lips. His Dwarf doesn’t enjoy it, that much is clear, but he persists until he gets his gear at a third of the going price.
For all that Glorfindel enjoyed Thorin’s fiery temper, it feels off in Bree. In contrast, it’s clear the Dwarf was never really furious with Glorfindel, even at his most fussy. The defensive tension straining his shoulders and the defiant tilt of his chin do little but fan the flames of Glorfindel’s indignation. They repeat the process at every stall, Thorin growing stiffer and Glorfindel icier until the passers-by start giving them a wide berth.
“I would rather we make use of what daylight we still have,” he says, a bit too sharply for the occasion. “I do not know if I could rest easy in this place. Or at all.”
“Agreed,” spits Thorin, bitter anger deepening his voice even further. “Woods are far better.”
Night-terrors make their appearance, the very same night. Perhaps the hostility in Bree triggered them, or the trauma of his capture and subsequent abuse finally caught up with Thorin. The cause is ultimately meaningless.
Glorfindel finds himself—stressed. Nothing in him can sit by and let his friends hurt, targets of his affections even less so. He knows there is nothing for him to do, knows that he cannot fight Thorin’s ghosts in his stead, but damn if he doesn’t want to try. Thorin jerks from sleep with a scream on his lips almost on the hour, and all he can do is try to appear as calm and unconcerned as possible. Any verbal acknowledgement would surely be interpreted as a pitying, insincere gesture of highhanded histrionics.
Even beside that, he doesn’t delude himself that the affection thrumming in his heart is in any way returned. Thorin doesn’t need or want him, and he will make that fact known when the time comes. If Glorfindel is lucky, he will be allowed to see him safely to Ered Luin. After that, well, he is certainly old enough to have established routines for managing heartbreak. A couple of decades spent harrowing the monsters in Angmar tends to do the trick. A century, considering how rapidly this infatuation grew around him.
On the third night, he takes to spending his watch singing lightly under his breath. Whatever nightmare-world Thorin plunges into every time he falls asleep, it most certainly doesn’t include singing Elves. He can’t do much, but he can cut down on the terrible time between sleeping and wakefulness when the mind hasn’t yet settled into reality.
It works, to a degree. The nightmares are still as relentless as they ever have been, but it becomes easier for Thorin to go back to sleep. He jerks awake, eyes wide and terrified, sometimes with a Dwarven name on his lips, but one look at Glorfindel sitting calmly by the fire would be enough to convince him he is moderately safe.
Whatever skills Glorfindel acquired over his long life, he is completely defenceless against this. Sorrow stabs through his heart at Thorin’s pain, only to be joined by consuming love at the implied trust he’s shown. A couple of centuries in Angmar, perhaps?
Thorin has a family, he realizes a bit numb, as they walk through the unguarded, unsecured gates of Ered Luin, fourteen days after they set off. Two children and a wife. Eru have mercy, how mortifying.
It doesn’t take long for the Dwarrowdam to spot Glorfindel’s—very unwelcome, presumably—presence and extract herself from her husband’s hug. “And who are you,” she sneers, looking down her nose at him, never mind he’s easily twice her size and astride Levi besides. “What business do you have with Thorin, Elf?”
“I—” All words have flown out of his head and he’s stuck, staring into the Lady’s eyes. Ai, but she’s beautiful. From the ice of her eyes to the severe cut of her cheekbones, put into sharp contrast by the neatly trimmed beard. The majestic force of her spirit all but casts a light around her body. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realizes—he can’t even muster up any jealousy. True, his foolish infatuation never had an end goal, not even a conceptual one, but every time Thorin woke up with a Dwarven name on his lips, envy stabbed through his heart like a poisoned arrow. Now, however, that he’s faced with the target of Thorin’s affections, he is just—blank. “I—”
“Leave off, Dis,” grumbles Thorin, face hidden in the combined curls of his two sons. “I got caught by slavers. Glorfindel rescued me. Killed them all and nursed me back to health. I’d be dead a thousand times over if the bossy nightmare wasn’t as relentless as he was.”
Glorfindel swallows, shakes his head a little. Kindness? Now? Surely that’s an unprovoked attack—
“And you get off of that thing and come meet my family. The harridan is my sister, Dis. These two pebbles, who better not have been skipping their lessons, are my nephews, Fili and Kili.”
Sister. Sister. Sister-sister-sister.
Some of his emotional turmoil must show on his face because Thorin’s brow furrows in tandem with his sister’s. “Are you well,” he says, gruff voice still betraying a hint of real concern. “You’re never this quiet, not even when you really should be.”
“I,” he says, further showcasing his addled mind. “My apologies, my friend. Your family is so—Forgive me. It has been a long time since I’ve—We don’t—” To spare himself what little embarrassment he can, he slides of Levi and covertly buries his face in her mane, drawing a long, shuddering breath. No wonder the Dwarrowdam is stunning as she is—she’s Thorin’s spitting image. What were you thinking, for pity’s sake, this is low, even for you—
“He’s not usually this incoherent,” grumbles Thorin. “The sight of a proper mountain must have scrambled his fool Elf brains. Give it a second.”
A second? Glorfindel needs a month at least. A year. A decade on the outside. And now there are children?
“Your family is beautiful, my friend,” he says and means it, means it so much that his voice wobbles and he has to lock his knees so they don’t buckle at the sight of two Dwarflings, barely outside their toddling years, peeking over Thorin’s shoulder at him. “Stunning. I—I needed a moment.” Eru, but look at those eyes. The blonde child looks at him with glittering green, and the dark-haired child with fathomless black, and the Thorin twists, turns his way and sends him an exasperated, familiar look, and it’s all Glorfindel can do to stay upright and conscious. Ai, children. “Perhaps more than one. Hello, little ones, I am named Glorfindel, but you can call me whatever you would prefer. Your—Uncle?—is a dear friend.”
The Lady Dis arches her brows. She’s markedly less antagonistic than most Dwarves he’s come across—than, notably, the small sea of Dwarves looking at them from the sidelines in shocked silence. “What a day to be alive,” she says, dry but without any real malice. “You’ve found the queerest Elf on Arda, brother.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” says Thorin, huffing a small, put-upon sigh. “To be fair, there’s only so much you can expect from anyone as old as Glorfindel the Balrog slayer.”
Normally, he wouldn’t mind. He’s heard it so many times, letting it pass by unacknowledged is easy as breathing. It’s just—He got used to it, grew spoiled with being Glorfindel-the-fussy-nag and Glorfindel-the-senseless-weed-eater. To hear his so-called title from Thorin’s lips, when he’s as out of sorts as he is—He flinches back, the movement small but unmistakable. The wobbly smile freezes on his face, pulling his muscles in odd, unnatural ways. Eru, calm down. It’s fine—the entirety of Arda knows you by that name, pull yourself together.
Thorin spots it, Lady Dis spots it, even their audience spots it. There is silence for a long moment, while Glorfindel tries to recall he has, in fact, been alive in one way or another for thousands of years before the First Age even begun, and is therefore surely capable of some decorum. Of course, Glorfindel of Gondolin, mocks the cynical part of his mind. Age is such a good insulator against heartbreak. How painless is it, to think about your King? Your shining prince? You grieved for every love, reciprocated or not, just the same as if you had been a youth. Pretend or not, but don’t lie to yourself.
“Yes,” he says, several moments too late for it to be anything but awkward. “Yes, ah. I am.” Deep breaths. “My apologies?”
Thorin wears his emotions bold and unashamed, so his surprise now is written as plain as one could wish. Surprise and—discomfort? Surely the Dwarves can’t mind Glorfindel killed a Balrog? Assigning any value to it or not, the act itself is at worst aggressively neutral.
Say something. The children are watching you with giant eyes and pouty lips. Thorin’s surprise is mounting and his sister might be more perceptive than her brother is. Put your heart away for goodness’ sake, before someone takes offence. You’re not yet beyond a friendly parting from Thorin, but you very well might be if you don’t stop, right now.
“I—don’t suppose I would be allowed to stay and re-supply?” Good enough. “I would hate to interrupt your private celebrations about Thorin’s return, but—”
“You’re leaving?”
Glorfindel baulks at the tone, at the shock and anger and hurt woven together to wholly unwelcome effect. “I didn’t know I was welcome to—stay? You never said, never even hinted at anything, so I. Extrapolated.”
Thorin stares at him in mute rage, lips curled away from his teeth, and Glorfindel—he doesn’t cower, but he does retreat to the safety of Levi. He can leap on her back easily from here, and it looks increasingly possible running for the hills could be imminent.
“You—You—Dis!”
Lady Dis sends a long look skyward before she trains them on Glorfindel. Goodness, but they’re just like Thorin’s, aren’t they? “What my brother means to say is that he assumed you knew you were welcome. If you want to leave, we won’t stop you, but we would prefer if you didn’t just yet. Surely your duties aren’t that pressing if you spent however many weeks toiling after my brother.”
“Spending time with Thorin is a privilege,” he says, without even partial control of his mouth or throat. “One I would not dream of taking for granted. Providing what little aid I could is entirely trivial in comparison.”
Lady Dis nods, face arranged in a patient, almost maternal expression. “That doesn’t answer my question. Your duties?”
“My duties?” Ai, how simple life would be if he had concrete duties. “I am my own master, alas. My duties are no more involved than killing as many orcs and slavers as I care to, when the mood strikes me.”
She nods, not even feigning surprise. “So you will stay, then?”
Glorfindel’s head spins. One would think his heart would grow too tired for all these twists and turns. Not so. From dejection, straight to elated joy, in less than ten minutes. “However long you would have me.”