The keen flame of the time-stubbed candles flickered momentarily, then recovered their steadiness, in the hours of the dawn. Through the many hours since Glorfindel's departure their light had shined upon page after page of the scribes carefully penned transcription, and with each passing hour the illumination of understanding intensified within the prince's heart and mind. At last, he came to the final page, and with it the concluding declaration of Elrond's despair. "Here ends the truthful account of the Last Alliance of Men and Elves, and the death of Ereinion Gil-galad, ar-nin, melethron-nin, cuil-nin, Last High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth. Faithfully transcribed in great sorrow this second year of the Third Age, by Elrond Peredhil, Lord of Imladris."
He stared at the words, allowing the full weight of their meaning to wash over him, again and again. "Gil-galad -- 'ar-nin, melethron-nin, cuil-nin'," he whispered under his breath.
"'My king, my lover, my life.' By Elbereth, how could I be so blind?" Cursing his unintentional insensitivity and appalling lack of insight, he carefully closed the volume and rested his chin upon its edge. It was as clear as the light of Earendil why Elrond had withdrawn his affection that starlit night nearly four years before. You carelessly sing of the death of the one he loved and expect to be rewarded with tender kisses of joy? You are as dense as the walls of this palace, and twice as cold. It is only by the Lady's grace that you ever found your way into his arms.
Yet, if that be the case, then why had Elrond requested so urgently that he finish his song, and sing of Gil-galad's fate anew, when they had finally tasted the pleasures of each other's flesh. "It will send the spirit back to Mandos, where he shall find peace... and so shall I." Such pain could not be borne alone, and Elrond, in his own way, had tried to share his heart, and its wounds, along with the intimacy of their flesh. Has the ghost fled for Mandos, or does an echo of it haunt him still?
Suddenly realizing that in his shock he had not clearly read the brief postscript at the very bottom of the final page, he hastily opened up the volume and poured over the inscription. "Faithfully reproduced by Glorfindel, at the request of Lord Elrond, the Year 2713 of the Third Age. May we never forget those we have lost, but equally rejoice in those we have found." Was that meaningful benediction meant for him, or for Elrond? Perhaps both of us. A hint of a hope-filled smile upturned the corners of his mouth, remembering Arwen's grateful last words upon ending their first introduction.
"Thank you for bringing the light back into his face. I have missed it more than you could ever know." Hadn't Glorfindel said much the very same thing to him not too many hours before?
"Never question your ability to heal, Legolas. You have touched my heart in a way some many times your age will never master. Take that thought with you, as well as this gift." The much-missed voice echoed in his ears, pulling his heart westward, toward the sun-blessed valley and its water-kissed pathways. To see the stars again, with Elrond at his side, seemed the greatest bliss imaginable, save the sweeter still pleasures to be tasted in the passionate Lord's arms. Never had his home felt so claustrophobic, so rather much a tomb. He longed for the open archways of Imladris, the endless library, the comforting constant burble of the Bruinen in the background. He cursed his carelessness on the field of battle for the unwelcome delay it would necessarily cause in his much anticipated return to the hidden valley, and its Lord's enticing embrace.
The sound of a throat clearing softly caught Legolas' attention. Turning his eyes toward the doorway, he found Glorfindel standing tentatively just inside the entrance.
"You have finished your reading," the elder elf softly surmised, noting that the prince's fingers still lay on the page just beneath his inscription. "I hope you read every word."
"Every word, especially yours," Legolas firmly noted, carefully closing the book and setting it down beside him. "Is it time to redress my wound?"
Glorfindel nodded, walking over to his patient and setting his bowl of medicine upon the table. "This will not take long."
Pushing aside the bedcovers, Legolas rolled over onto his side, ignoring the spikes of pain in his leg. "Take all the time you require. Do what you must, so long as I am fit to travel before the spring returns to Imladris...."
After completing his skilled ministrations, Glorfindel helped Legolas return to a position of rest and comfort. "The wound is clean, and the healing has already begun. You will have a scar, but with time it will fade." Flashing a smile of encouragement at the prince, he gestured to the book which still lay by Legolas' side. "Do you wish for me to return it to the chest?"
"Not just yet. I... I may wish to reread parts of it."
"As you wish. Is there anything else you require?"
Legolas shook his head and smiled warmly at the elder elf. "You have done enough. What follows is in my hands."
Flashing a hint of a smile of understanding, Glorfindel nodded slowly. "So it is. Take some rest, and allow your body the strength to heal." He turned to leave, but a question called out to him
"They all fade, eventually, do they not?"
The elder elf glanced over his shoulder at the prince's hope-filled expression. "Scars? Yes. Both those without, and those within. All that is required is the proper medicine, and the passage of time." Pausing, Glorfindel pondered all that had transpired. "Even if a hint of the scar remains, so long as the pain has been wiped away, the wound is truly healed. I believe it might serve us well to keep something of our scars. They remind us of our ability to suffer agonizing pain, yet survive, and become whole, once more. If there was no chance for injury, then we would not know the joy of healing another. Without the chill of winter, how would we know to appreciate the warmth of spring?" Amused at his poetic waxings, Glorfindel flashed a brief smile and turned to depart. "Dream of spring in Imladris, Legolas. Both you, and its Lord, have tasted enough of winter."
Relaxing into his pillows with a breathless sigh of love-filled anticipation, Legolas eagerly did as Glorfindel suggested, hoping his ever-sweet remembrances of glorious nights in Elrond's arms would fill his body with the strength required to make those dreams reality before long.
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