Valinor, 3 Fourth Age

Rúmil of Lórien took pride in a job well-done. Thus, despite the fact that everyday that he passed in the so-called Blessed Lands he felt more miserable, he never complained. He kept on performing his role of protector, messenger and general aide of the Lady Galadriel. In his heart he wished that he had never sailed West. He did not know the language, was not used to the food, abhorred the ceremonious ways of the people, and heavily resented being trapped in an all Noldo enclave. He had imagined Aman to be different, to be a rich mixture of the successive waves of Middle-earth refugees who arrived there for more than three ages. But no, each procured their own people and with few exceptions, remained enclosed in their little neighbourhoods.

He often wished to himself that Lord Celeborn had not been so generous with him. He had been a mere Marchwarden in Lórien, but his heroic services in the north-eastern border during the final attacks of Dor Guldur had earned him a reward that felt more like a punishment. He had been chosen for the personal escort of Lady Galadriel. Though he realized it was an honour envied by many, he doubted that anyone could have foreseen the outcome. He was a warrior used to an active life in the wilderness; sitting around all day long waiting to chaperone the Lady Galadriel or carry her messages was all but pleasurable, useful or meaningful. This way of life was dragging on, almost for years.

His musings were interrupted by a soft call. He followed it into Galadriel's study.

"You called, my lady?"

"Yes, Rúmil, darling. I need you to take a message to my uncle Fingolfin."

"Right away, ma'am," he replied.

"This needs to be delivered in hand, though. I suspect that some of my uncle's aides take pleasure in reading his personal messages and occasionally making them disappear. I'm sure you realize as well as I do, that we newcomers are not well-esteemed... especially in my case, who had the arrogance of leaving in the first place."

Rúmil nodded sullenly. He had indeed noticed demeanours changing to less pleasant forms when he identified himself as being from Galadriel's house.

"I will deliver it in his hands, rest assured, my lady."

She handed him a letter with no visible exterior identification. "Thank you. I hope you have a safe journey. You might have to wait for the answer..."

---

As Rúmil expected, Fingolfin's people were less than warm upon hearing his request. In almost four years of frequent visits to the palace as an escort or a messenger, Rúmil had never even seen Fingolfin up close. Noldo royalty just was not supposed to mingle with lowly Silvan aide. Fingolfin's palace was located a few miles to the south of Valinor and when Rúmil arrived it was high noon. The servants simply indicated him the way to a vast rose garden and told him to look for Fingolfin there, not even offering him the refreshments normally offered to couriers.

Rúmil wandered through the tall, blooming bushes, semi-lost. The garden had a labyrinthine structure and the summer sun was high. No sound could be heard. Eventually he came to an ascending path. Hoping to better see the gardens and find his mark, he climbed it. Sitting on a simple stone bench was Fingolfin, golden hair gleaming under the sun. He did not seem startled upon Rúmil's intrusion into his private space. He simply nodded in acknowledgement and inched towards the farther edge of the bench, creating space for two.

To Rúmil's surprise, Fingolfin broke the protocol and spoke first. "Have a seat."

Rúmil was dumbfounded. Ignoring Fingolfin's extraordinary invitation, he bowed and said, "I bring you a message from the Lady Galadriel." He reached inside his bag and extracted the neatly folded letter.

Fingolfin slowly extended his hand, as if he was reluctant to accept it. He broke the seal and glanced at the first lines. Then he looked up to Rúmil. "If you follow this path, you'll find a fountain a few paces away. You look like you need some refreshment."

Rúmil bowed. "Thank you."

He followed the path and indeed, as promised, a fountain of clear, cool water awaited him. He washed the dust and sweat off his face and hands and had a drink. He wished to take off his tunic and let the cool water abate the scorching summer heat from his torso, but that would be inappropriate. He returned to Fingolfin as soon as he thought a decent interval had passed and the lord had had an opportunity to read the letter.

Fingolfin rose, extending his hand for Rúmil to approach. "Magnificent, isn't it?" he asked regarding the acres of roses ahead. "This has been the task of my second chance at life. What do you make of it?"

Rúmil bit his lip. "It is indeed impressive."

Fingolfin smiled. "And yet, like my niece, you think it's a waste of time and energy, don't you."

Rúmil averted his eyes to his buttons. "I wouldn't know, sir. I am but a humble courier."

"Nonsense. You may speak freely, you know. I'm tired of being treated as this untouchable being. I hear that in my niece's realm things were different."

"Aye," Rúmil admitted. "It is the custom of the Silvan people to speak freely to their lords, and Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel honoured this time-proven tradition when they assumed our leadership."

"Interesting concept... it is refreshing. So tell me then, Rúmil, is it, what do you think of my garden?"

Rúmil was surprised that Fingolfin should know his name, but he did not commented it. Instead he started carefully. "I am not bound to please thee with my answers, should you require my utter frankness."

"Go on, worry not," Fingolfin encouraged him.

"Well, I would say that the garden is indeed beautiful, but it lacks purpose. As far as I can see it, all these acres are only used for your pleasure. That seems little to me. You were once a great ruler of the Noldor, they say, so it's rather baffling that you should chose to use your talents and power in this sole task. And for this garden to keep this vitality under this sun, I'm imagining that many gardeners and many gallons of water find their end here."

Fingolfin smirked, making Rúmil's blood run faster. The lord had insisted that he tell of his mind, but the words were harsh and far from pleasing, he imagined.

"Well, you are right," Fingolfin said to his surprise. "This garden is laid to waste if its beauty solely consoles my eyes, but I created it with another purpose, one that I do not know how to put in practice now that the garden is done."

"And what purpose would that be?" Rúmil asked tentatively, being that he had been given permission to speak freely.

Fingolfin snorted somewhat bitterly. "To atone for sins of the past."

"I thought that one did that in Mandos..." Rúmil formulated in a general fashion, being terribly uncomfortable with the topic.

"No, no..." Fingolfin laughed. "In Mandos, one is given time to reflect and devise ways to live a better life, and repay what was one was given the first time. I must say that I've not been doing too well so far."

"If I understand correctly, your life project, let's call it, is somewhat related to this garden..." Rúmil was baffled both by the notion and by the fact that a Noldo lord would make such personal confessions to a complete stranger of a much inferior social stratum.

Fingolfin seemed to pick up Rúmil's doubts. "You are certainly wondering why I am telling you all this..."

Rúmil nodded.

"My project was to create a space for the living akin to the gardens of Irmo. A place for recovery and fraternization where exiles would find peace and hope, and time to prepare for the second halves of their lives. This would serve the double purpose of welcoming newcomers and of mingling the Noldor with the Sindar and the Silvan. I feel I have made a great disservice to our race when I arrived at Hithlum, and I would like to close the breach between our peoples."

"Lord Elrond has achieved that which you propose in Imladris, and from what I hear he has carried on his work in New Imladris, in the north."

"Yes, yes, yes," Fingolfin agreed impatiently. "Elrond has certainly done that but his is still a closed community. The people arriving from the lost villages of Eriador do not mix with the elves from the Falas, or the Mirkwood exiles. The people of Gondolin who have been returned from Mandos keep as insular as ever, for which I have heavily criticized my son, though he won't listen. The few reborn Fëanorians hide south from here, refusing all contact with the exterior... I won't even mention the people from Doriath... Thingol was always a pompous ass, too full of himself." Fingolfin stopped and smirked. "I suppose that he says the same about me."

Rúmil smiled along; he appreciated the ancient Noldo's sense of humour. Not many elves were great enough to laugh at themselves.

"I understand what you say... but I am not sure why you are telling it to me."

"Well, have a seat," Fingolfin said, settling himself in one end of the stone bench. Rúmil sat.

He extracted Galadriel's letter from his pocket and handed it to Rúmil. "This letter is actually for you. It has not escaped my niece's keen eye that you are not happy with your current situation. Even I who have seen you not more than three or four times have seen how you wear a certain sadness as an albatross around your neck. My dear Artanis thought that an association between us two would be mutually beneficial but has left the issuing of the invitation up to me."

Rúmil raised an eyebrow, surprised, and started reading the letter, where Galadriel spoke of her anguish over the blatant insularity and cultural divisions, and acknowledged that Celeborn's recompense for his deeds might have not been the best. When he finished he looked up, surprise still stopping his tongue.

"So?" Fingolfin asked.

"Can I think about it?"

Fingolfin seemed somewhat disappointed, but he nodded in assent. "Yes, of course. Please be a guest in my house while you consider."

Bravely he turned to face them. Rúmil had never enjoyed public speaking, or to be truthful, any sort of speaking; he preferred to work quietly patrolling the woods, and that had been the reason why he had never followed the path of his brother Haldir in traveling abroad. Those days were gone now. He had accepted Fingolfin's invitation, and all that came with it. So now, he stood before an assembly of Silvan elves, trying to convince them to send a few of their own to spend their precious time in the house of a commonly disliked Noldo, 'stealer of land,' as some dubbed him. To make matters worse, they were supposed to be in the company of Sindar, of whom only recently they had gained political independence. The murmurs raised upon that thought were nothing to the roar that the mention of joining more Noldor from different provenances raised. The Vanyar were too haughty for their tastes, worse than the Noldor, if possible. The Teleri seemed to be the only group that did not inspire objections.

Rúmil was tired. In truth, a part of him did not really believe in the project. Like Fingolfin and Galadriel, he wanted more union between the peoples of Aman, and a deeper meaning to his life and those reasons had led him to accept. It was just that strolling along in a rose garden hardly seemed to accomplish anything. He could see clearly in his mind the little groups continuing to do their own thing separately. He thought that it could be a far more profitable way of achieving the same goals would have been to send mixed groups to fully integrated and functional communities, like New Imladris. Elrond and his people had their own sustainability issues to deal with, though, and they could only receive very small groups at a time, too few to be effective in the medium term. And Rúmil could, of course, understand that as soon as those people returned home, the feeling of insularity would settle in again, and the time abroad would be reminded as nothing more than a quaint, somewhat pleasant experience.

So all in all, what effort was worthy? He had faced the same objections in other assemblies with other groups... What he needed was not the past and the grudges that these Elves carried. What he needed was the future. So when he finally faced them, to answer the questions that had poured while he wrote them in a black board in hasty tengwar, he made a decision. Fingolfin would probably not like it, but it was better to have a change of plans than a dead plan.

"My friends," he started, trying to ignore the flare of heat that spread from his chest. "You have only heard the first part of the offer I brought you." A few voices raised in dismissing sounds.

"I, a Silvan like yourselves, would not have devoted so much of my time and energy into this project, if I had not the deepest confidence in its worth." The conviction he managed to impress on the words despite the odds surprised him.

"A place of rest for those of us who were more battered by the fates at home is only a fraction of this. The true core are the children." A few eyebrows raised here and there, encouraging him to continue.

"Speaking frankly, we all know that our brothers from other races harbour some feelings and some less accurate impressions about our capabilities." Several grunts of displeasure were heard but Rúmil swallowed the knot in his throat and continued. "However, one of the greatest heroes, if not the greatest of this age that passed was the son of a Sinda and a Silvan. Were we so inept, would we have borne and raised such a fine elf as Legolas Thranduilión?"

Several voices raised in heated praise. Rúmil contained a smile. He knew he had found his mark with this group recently arrived from Mirkwood. He pressed on while they were receptive.

"I have had the honour of meeting in person this magnificent, brave Elf, may the Valar always protect him." Several heads nodded. The story of the Fellowship was well-known by now in both shores.

Rúmil finally allowed himself a tiny smile. "What I will say now you will loathe, I'm sure, but it has to be said. Legolas, the best archer of this age, arrived at the Golden Woods with a child's bow in his hand."

Several exalted voices protested, but Rúmil raised his voice and continued making himself be heard over the protests. "It is true, my friends. Ask him yourselves. And ask yourselves why am I telling you this."

A voice screamed from the back of the room, "You're jealous, that's why!"

Rúmil smiled and gently shook his head. "Wish I that it was so simple. I say this because it is time to look at some truths and ponder. We, the Silvan, for several reasons, have not invested our time in technological advancements. Our minds are not inferior to any of them. Unlike the Noldor, we did not have the benefit of being taught by the Valar. What tools we created, we resorted to our own ingenuity." A vague murmur of assent was heard. Relief washed over Rúmil, but he did not relent.

"We were not blessed with riches and time as the folk who came from these lands into Middle-earth. We were too busy hunting the next meal to design the perfect bow, or the perfect spear. Despite this, we excel in what we do. When given better weaponry, we yield beings like Legolas." Rúmil paused for an instant. The nervousness was all gone. He felt relaxed and yet completely alert, as when he was in battle. It was as if he was attuned with the universe.

"You may ask why I speak of war in a land of peace... you are right if you say that these are skills we need no more. But there is other knowledge to be acquired and explored. What I am offering here, is a chance for us to send our children to a place where they will learn from those who know more, no matter how painful it is for our pride to admit this, and see them thrive and excel amidst the children of other races. What I am saying is that we have a chance of proving every one wrong, and let them know that we are in no way inferior, physically or intellectually."

The room was dead silent. People looked at each other with unease but none dared to voice their thoughts. Finally a woman stood up timidly. "When you say children... My daughter is forty-two now..."

Rúmil jumped at the chance of starting the discussion. "When I say children I mean our young ones who want to learn, even those who may be of age already."

Another question came from the middle of the room. "So what would they learn, exactly?"

"Everything they want – to read and write and count for the younger, trades for the eldest, poetry and music, if they are so inclined..."

"Will we be able to see our children? I don't want my boy to grow far from his own."

"You'll be able to see them whenever you want. The roads are safe, and all the villages are within a days walk, two in the worst cases. And, you can inclusively live with them, if you remember the first part of the offer."

Other questions rained. Rúmil improvised as he went along, never letting doubt take hold of him. Now he was sure that they were on the right track, and that something worthy could be extracted from Fingolfin's dream.

The elf who had told him he was jealous of Legolas posed the last question. "Why is this Noldo lord doing this? What is the plan? To turn our children in a bunch of little Noldor?"

There was a distinct cooling in the room's atmosphere. Rúmil took a deep breath. "Your doubts are not unjustified," he started.

The other rudely interrupted, "Damn right they're not!"

"But," Rúmil continued unfettered, "You have no cause to worry – he only means to atone for his past arrogance and contempt regarding our people and the Sindar. The plan is to have each race learn the best from the others for their own improvement. This by no means implies that we have to stop being ourselves. Again, at the risk of repeating myself, you have the example of Legolas, a Silvan-Sinda who took a bow developed by the Sindar under the advice of a Noldo, my Lady Galadriel, and used it for the profit of all. He now lives in Ithilien, side by side with men, many Silvan Elves and those from other races, and is building a wondrous city. He did not stop caring for his people or being what he is, the best of the Silvan and the Sindar."

The Elf grunted unsatisfied, but his protest was quieted under the applause that followed. That, Rúmil had not expected, not even when he had realized that the battle had been won. He felt his cheeks redden as he bowed in thanks. He bid them good evening and left the room as quickly as decency allowed, promising to return in a few days to set up the final details.

He rode back to Fingolfin's house as fast as he could, trying to reach it before it was too late in the evening. For the first time, he felt he had been successful, but he knew he still had one final battle – to convince Fingolfin.

Fingolfin received him despite the late hour and the protests of his servants. He wore a plain thin cotton nightgown and a robe that had seen better days. The clothes did not detract in anyway on his beauty or his regal posture, but they were not what Rúmil had expected to see. They sat in Fingolfin's study, overlooking the rose garden with a single candle lighting them.

Rúmil, so brave and eloquent before, in front of the audience, now felt that words were slippery as live fish. Still he told Fingolfin what he had done. Fingolfin sat back in silence, looking outside. Rúmil wondered if his heart was so loud that he could hear it too.

Still gazing out the window, Fingolfin took a hand to his chin and rubbed it. Then he rose and walked to the window. "A school, eh..." he murmured.

Rúmil could not read a definitive positive or negative reaction in the tone. Still anxious, and trying to defend his idea, he said, "My lord, think about it: dozens of girls and boys together, learning together, working together, growing together... this is the best way to ensure that there are long lasting friendships between all the peoples. And I wouldn't be surprised if many mixed marriages would arise."

Fingolfin vaguely nodded. He repeated "A school," still immersed in his thoughts. Then he turned abruptly and walked briskly to Rúmil, clasping his arms. "A school, you say! You're a genius!"

Rúmil smiled faintly, somewhat confused. "Not really, my lord. It was just an idea in the heat of the moment and they seemed to like it. I thought that the first children could stay in all the spare rooms of this palace and later on other rooms could be constructed by their own hands with what they learned."

"No, no, this is a great idea," Fingolfin protested, letting go of his arms and walking to the cupboard behind them. "Let's celebrate with some of this Miruvor my grandniece sent me." He handed Rúmil a glass full to the brim and sat on the opposite chair. "Now all you have to do is to convince all the others," he said with a wink before downing the strong liquor in one gulp.

---

In the matter of a few days, Rúmil's speeches had developed a sort of patina, yielding them an aura of reachable utopia. He visited new villages, revisited others, presenting the new offer. To the Silvan he repeated the same arguments; to the Sindar, slight variations of them. To the Noldor and the Vanyar, he reminded them of their reputation for being conceited in the first case and too pious in the second, challenging them to broaden their own horizons, and proving themselves as worthy as they said they were. To the Teleri, he reminded them of the evils of staying alone and trusting too much their own resources. After two months, he had more than enough children to come to Fingolfin's gardens in the Fall and start their schooling.

Valinor, 10 Fourth Age

Rúmil of Lórien took pride in a job well-done. He had always done so. But when it was done out of love rather than duty, his heart swelled. So now, as he regarded a group of children of various ages heading for the large classroom Fingolfin had built in the center of his garden, he felt more than self-satisfaction; he felt truly alive, as if the smallest particles of his body were connected to the rest of Arda.

His plan had been a success. Not all the communities had adhered in the first year. Many had scorned him and Fingolfin, but he had persisted. When the first Summer came, the children were sent home. The next Fall, they were bringing along their little friends and relatives. Rúmil and Fingolfin had some trouble in organizing all the practical aspects: beds were missing, teachers were hard to come by. Galadriel, at first reluctant in involving herself in something so big, quickly joined her quick and resourceful thinking to their efforts.

Often the children themselves contributed to the resolutions of these small daily problems. They were stimulated to always think for themselves and to respect others. All others. Sometimes a few kerfuffles arose. Instead of punishing the students, Rúmil and Fingolfin had devised a student's court, composed of a table of no less than five children. No race was allowed to be predominant in number in those courts and both parties were carefully listened to. At first the court members themselves almost started new wars, but rapidly they learned respect, then affection. Now, as Rúmil looked upon them, they barely acknowledged their differences or any prejudice any more.

There were of course little groups within the group. Those were inevitable. But they were mostly mixed groups. There were no ill-feelings between them, and that was what mattered the most.

Rúmil heard the door opening behind him, then being softly closed.

"I thought I might find you here," Fingolfin said in his rich, warm voice.

Rúmil glanced back with a smile. "I like watching their antics."

Fingolfin came closer. "And I like watching you watch."

Rúmil turned to face him. "I'll be leaving tomorrow, then."

"You needn't do that, Rúmil," Fingolfin said, stepping back. "You shouldn't do that. You have a place here, that you have made for yourself."

Rúmil gazed at his feet. "We've been through this before."

"Yes, we have. And I told you how I feel."

Fingolfin forced Rúmil's chin up. There they were, those impossibly blue eyes and that mane of liquid gold. Fingolfin made him feel washed out in color, so radiant was his beauty. Rúmil bit his lip.

"And when your lady wife returns from Mandos?"

"Dear Erú. Countless times I told you this is not going to happen. Rúmil, I begged and pleaded for her to join me for countless years. Her reply was always the same. Her break of faith in me was irretrievable. I was angry, then sad. Today, I think that I can understand her feelings, though I still think they were no valid cause to relinquish life as it is. But it is her choice. She will not return, believe me."

"Your children, your brother?"

Fingolfin laughed bitterly. "You are relentless, aren't you? My brother is happy as long as I'm not disputing his kingship. I won't. He turned out to be a much wiser king than I ever was. My children... Turgon won't like it, but Fingon... I think he could understand. Aredhel might never know, so keen that she is in moping in Mandos instead of enjoying the glorious gift of life."

Fingolfin let his fingers slide from Rúmil's chin to his cheek in a slow caress. "Yield. You want to. You wanted it when I visited you last night..." Fingolfin deposited a kiss on Rúmil's lips. Rúmil responded, a slow fire building between them, but then he broke the kiss as a wave of laughter reached them.

"What if the parents of these children find out?" he asked, glancing outside. "How many of them do you think would understand or tolerate. It could be the end of your dream."

"We can be careful," Fingolfin replied. "And we'll fight that battle when it comes our way."

Again he closed the distance between them with a kiss. "Rúmil, I shared a dream with you and you made it bloom beyond the measure of imagination. Now don't let this wilt. Come, there is pleasure to be had, but most of all there is love to be shared. I trust you more than myself. Yield to me for more than a few fleeting moments in the night."

"I will think about it." Rúmil said as he parted. "Maybe I should go today."

Fingolfin followed him and stopped him before he left the room. "You stay tonight."

Rúmil nodded and left.

---

The moon descended the sky when Rúmil left his bed. It was a chilly dawn, so he dressed quickly. Fingolfin said something in his sleep but did not wake. Rúmil looked at his scantily covered body, and wished he could stay. The gold of Fingolfin's hair turned to old silver under the cold light but it was no less beautiful. Rúmil tried to engrave the memory in his mind as he softly closed the door.

---

Alqualondë. Rúmil had ridden until the sun rose to Galadriel's house, only to find it empty. He had considered staying all the same, since officially he still belonged to her house, but the empty walls were little comfort for his troubled mind. So he rode up north along the shore to the Swan Haven, to reach it late in the afternoon. He could have chosen no better time, had he tried. The sun painted the water, the ships and the walls of lovely shades from peach to tender rose.

Rúmil's eyes took in the beauty but his heart did not feel it. He waved and nodded distractedly as he rode along the main road, heading for the Lady Galadriel's abode. He barely noticed the change accorded to him – that had been food for thought on other occasions – but he was far from being the withdrawn Marchwarden of before. He was not invisible, but rather known to all who had children in Fingolfin's house and more.

When he reached the entrance to the palace, the Lady Galadriel already awaited him.

"Rúmil, my friend."

Rúmil bowed deeply. She laughed, her deep sad laughter. "Will you never stop being that formal? I thought that uncle Fingolfin was working on that."

Rúmil forced a smile as he followed her into the house.

"So what caused this impromptu visit, my friend," she asked him as she led him to her private parlour. "Not that it's unwelcome, of course."

"Nothing, I just needed some time for myself, for a change." Rúmil knew he had said too much. In fact he knew he did not have to say anything for her to know that something was amiss and what it was exactly. Galadriel respected his reserve, though. She conversed of many trivial matters, mostly related to the school. She tried hard to keep her distance, under the pretext of needing peace and quiet, but she had completely surrendered to the idea, and could not hide her enthusiasm. Rúmil liked to see her so alive.

As if reading his thoughts, and she probably had, Rúmil realized, she observed, "My uncle seems to have been born for a third time, so full of life he is. He positively glows."

Rúmil stayed quiet.

"You don't agree?" she insisted.

"Oh, yes, yes I do. He does look happy."

Galadriel smiled. "Rúmil. I'm dying to meddle, you know? But those days are over for me." She rose from her chair as Rúmil sank on his.

"I'm dying to formally discharge you from my service and bind you to my uncle's house. Then you'd have no choice but to stay there by his side."

Rúmil hid his face in his hands with a deep sigh.

"You know, under all that equality and union between the people's talk of his, my uncle was not that much of an egalitarian before you two met. And I must admit neither am I for most of the time. But you, with your discrete and modest ways, managed to rub our noses in this simple truth – social class has no role in being extraordinary... though it might help getting you into the history books," she added with a wink.

"Rúmil, darling..." She came closer and softly played with his hair, as if he were a child. "Don't be stubborn. You don't know what incredible gifts you might miss."

She walked to her chair and sat down regarding him intently. "There. I meddled, though I promised I wouldn't. Aren't you going to say anything?"

Rúmil shook his head, but then he cleared his throat. "I don't think people will accept."

"Many won't," she agreed. She gave him time to continue, but he stayed quiet, much like before he had met Fingolfin and his life had changed.

"Did I ever tell you about my marriage to Celeborn," she asked after a few moments. "Thingol's Sindar took it very well. Their king was married to a goddess, why wouldn't a prince of theirs marry a simple daughter of a king? My kin, however..." Galadriel sighed. "Well, we still love and respect each other. We, together, outlasted foes, empires, lands, ages of time."

"I'm not you," Rúmil sighed.

"Of course not. You are you, so you'll have to do your own thing. But, you won't be able to do it here in my house, no matter how well-esteemed and welcomed you are. I'm not refusing you my hospitality in any way, but I think it's time you go home. And accept it, all of it."

Rúmil lowered, his head defeated but he was not disappointed. It was hard to be so when one was forced to accept his heart's desire.

---

When Rúmil entered his room it was way past midnight. He realized his horse had reasons to despise him, but he hoped that a few carrots would appease him in time. He had always been like that: he took ages weighing his motives, his fears, his constraints, but when he made a decision, he put it in practice swiftly, not so much out of fear of his feet running cold, but because if something was worth doing, it was worth doing now.

The curtains were closed, so he clumsily walked to his desk and tried to light a candle. A groan came from the bed as response to the loud thump of the candle holder as it hit the ground.

"Fin?" he asked not believing. "What are you doing in my bed?"

"Rúmil?" Fingolfin tried to contain a yawn. "I wasn't expecting you so soon. I mean," he quickly emended, "I wasn't even sure if I should expect you back, ever..."

Rúmil found the bed in the dark and sat on the side of the mattress, fumbling the linens for Fingolfin. "Well, I'm back. To stay," he said as he found a naked thigh.

"Good," a sleepy Fingolfin said. "Now come here."

"I reek of horse."

Fingolfin sat up. "Damn, will you ever stop putting obstacles to every thing?"

Despite the dark, Rúmil knew he teased; his voice rang of laughter.

"Would you want me if I was less complicated?" he quipped.

"I would always want you."

Fingolfin pulled him close and kissed him. "Now come to bed."

Finis
November 2006