CHAPTER 6: THE BEST OF TIMES, THE WORST OF TIMES

"Have you heard the latest?" said Lindir, by way of introducing his presence at the parlour window.

Assuming her friend was raring to pour forth his gossip in his usual inimitable style, Aníra laid aside her cup, demurely folded her hands on the tabletop, and turned toward him. A knowing smile played about her lips.

"It seems I have not. Tea?"

"Well, since you're asking, it would rude…" his voice faded away as he made his way round.

By the time he'd settled himself at the table with a sigh of contentment, Aníra was adding the milk.

"So, the Twins have just arrived back from the Wild, escorting a lady of the Dúnedain and her young son…ooh! Those wouldn't be butterscotch, by any chance, would it?"

"You have a true gift for timing, Lindir. I was just about to have some."

"It is a well-known fact that sweet-meats taste so much better…oh, thank you!"

They ate in silence for a while, Lindir following his usual course where biscuits are concerned: break, dunk, munch.

"Where's the little one's Adar?"

"Pardon me? Oh, killed in battle against the Yrch. Poor little mite. He's only seen three summers."

"Another fosterling for Elrond, then. Interesting."

"That's not all. The lady – Gilraen is her name – carries with her the Ring of Barahir."

"The House of Isildur, eh? Very interesting."

"There you go! I knew you'd appreciate my coming round."

"Almost as much as you seem to have."

"A pleasure as always, my dear."

XXX

As is the way of Men, little Estel grew quickly, but was fortunate enough to have not been burdened by unhappy memories. To him, he merely went from one Adar to another. The Twins' presence also eased the transition, for they had known Estel since he was a babe-in-arms. It was possibly this closeness that had persuaded Elladan and Elrohir to resume their lives and duties in Imladris – much to Elrond's relief.

Seeing her son so happily settled was a balm to the Lady Gilraen's soul as well, meaning she was able to concentrate on her own healing. A talented herbalist, she would spend much of her free time in Elrond's herb garden. She wasn't expected to earn her keep, but ladies of the Dúnedain are hard workers and she eventually made good use of her skills by helping the Healers create draughts and poultices.

XXX

Elves are not generally accustomed to looking to the future, for that would be a mortal way of thinking. Now, however, the Imladrim were protecting the Heir of Isildur whilst being forbidden from uttering that very phrase. They knew the peace in the Valley would not hold forever, but they did not think it would be shattered so soon by Mithrandír leading a company of thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit.

Most in the Valley were sceptical over Elrond's wisdom in permitting their entry, for all they lauded Imladris' tradition of sanctuary. The enmity sparked by the traitorous murder of Thingol was a feeling not lightly thrown aside. Elrond understood their feelings and did not press any to contribute more than they had to. There were some, however, whose rank necessitated their presence at certain functions. Glorfindel came home with tales of raucous singing and food-fights. In fact, few could fail to miss the singing, for it would often shatter the tranquillity of the night, as did the use of the ornamental fountains for bathing pools. For once, Aníra was thankful for being blind, as it meant she didn't have the scene 'imprinted on her eyeballs', to use Lindir's shuddering expression.

The Dwarves' sojourn at Imladris did hold one happy prospect for Aníra: she was finally able to meet a Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. It happened quite suddenly one sunny afternoon in the gardens. Aníra was playing her lute when she became conscious of approaching footsteps. They weren't the measured step of an Elf, or the long stride of an Istar; they were smaller, rather like those of Estel, but at the same time adult, too.

"Who is there?" she called out.

"It is I, Bilbo Baggins of the Sh-oh!"

"Do not pity me, Master Baggins, I'm long used to being this way. I would that you treated me as one who is merely interested in you and your people. Mithrandír has told me many tales of your customs and I would like to hear a firsthand account. Here, sit beside me." She patted the bench. "You live underground, do you not?"

"We most certainly do not!" He sounded affronted. "A Hobbit Hole is not full of scuttling insects and oozy smells, but food, wine, fires, and very fine furnishings…"

The conversation continued for quite some time, which began to flow like water, both in that garden and later, when Aníra's family joined in also. Glorfindel was only too pleased to contribute with tales of derring-do; Límdur and Calanon appreciated Bilbo's artistic curiosity; and Gwirith seemed to enter into a recipe bidding-war – 'I'll take your syrup sponge and raise you my mallow cake!' All in all, it was time well spent and each was left with a sense of loss after the Dwarves and Bilbo had moved on.

XXX

Curumo – or Saruman as he now preferred to be called – finally acquiesced to Mithrandír's urgings to attack Dol Guldur, in the hope of driving Sauron away once and for all. It was a tense time for all concerned and those left behind could only come together for comfort and send pleas to the Valar for a favourable conclusion.

When the Elves and Istari did return – albeit claiming victory – they were dispirited and forlorn, for the evil at Dol Guldur seemed to have seeped into their very souls. In the days that followed, Glorfindel kept close to the cottage and would only venture out if Aníra wanted to go somewhere. He had his Protective Warrior Aura firmly in place and Aníra had been bonded with him for too long to try and change it. She knew the best ways to ease his burden and asked nothing of him.

XXX

Summer had been chilled by the attack on Dol Guldur, but then news reached Imladris of a great battle fought on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain. A relatively small force of Men, Silvan Elves, and Dwarves – aided by the Eagles – were pitched against innumerable Yrch and Wargs. Losses on both sides were heavy, but what vexed Aníra most was that little Bilbo Baggins had been right in the thick of things.

Mithrandír, when next he visited Imladris, was able to assure Aníra he'd escorted the Hobbit safely to the borders of the Shire. However, he became strangely evasive when questioned over exactly how Bilbo had managed to survive what would later become known as the Battle of the Five Armies.

XXX

"Adar, I believe I have just seen your fosterling Estel down by the Bruinen."

"Ah, my thanks to you, daughter, we've been searching high and low for him."

"Whatever for?"

"It was only yesterday that I told him of his true inheritance and gave him the Ring of Barahir and the Shards of Narsil."

"He is…much grown since last I saw him."

"Yes, well, he has also grown both impetuous and hot-headed, like much of his kind. I should let Gilraen know of his whereabouts."

XXX

Now that Estel knew himself, there was nothing to stop him from going off for 'Real Adventures'. He went with his Naneth's blessing, however, for she knew all had been done to protect him and a grown man must be allowed to make and live by his own decisions. He did return at intervals, bringing with him tales of his service in the guise of Thorongil to both Gondor and Rohan.

At one time, he returned with Arwen at his side. It transpired they had met when Estel visited Lothlórien. That knowledge, coupled with the nervously formal way he asked Elrond for a private meeting, should have revealed everything. As it was, Elrond himself disappeared for a while, apparently taking A Walk. Eventually, Lindir's gossip vine filtered through the news that Estel had indeed asked for Elrond's permission to wed Arwen, but it had been withheld until such time as he was king of both Gondor and Arnor.

Death was a concept most Elves did not concern themselves with. Of course, they weren't so blinkered as to ignore it completely – a natural balance was needed, after all – but it was not a given. Death as a result of war was tragic enough, but to willingly accept the Gift of Men was truly heart-rending. No doubt Elrond had been hoping all three of his elflings would follow his path, as opposed to that of their uncle. Celebrían had sailed in the saddest of circumstances, now her mate was faced with the prospect of leaving behind his beloved daughter.

The following evening, it was noticeable that there were far fewer in the Hall of Fire. Everyone had evidently been taking stock and were now giving thanks for the presence of their own loved ones.

XXX

The Third Age of Arda had not long turned over its third Millenium when Bilbo made a surprise return to Imladris, announcing his intention to stay as 'nowhere else came as close to matching Bag End in comfort'. Apparently, he had left all his possessions to a young relative of his, Frodo.

"A spirited lad, all told," said Bilbo approvingly. "Just as long as them Sackville-Bagginses don't try to sell off the furniture when his back is turned. Assumed I was dead, can you believe? Took me no small amount of trouble to track it all down. They've never forgiven me for living this long and they never appreciated my tales of mountains and Trolls. Mind you, they always had their eyes on my wine cellar. Had to hide all my Old Winneard. Did I tell you I've written a book? A little trouble with the ending, but Gandalf seemed to like it."

Bilbo had mentioned his writing to Aníra on more than one occasion. In fact, she was growing slightly concerned for her little friend. He had taken to talking in a rambling, far-off fashion and his fëa felt jaded somehow. Still, he had endeared himself to many in the Valley, all of whom made it their business to ensure his comfort whilst he was in their care.

XXX

"Elrond! Elrond!"

Aníra doubted any in the House would have missed Glorfindel's alarmed call. She certainly couldn't, having taken to sitting just within the bounds of the Outer Courtyard in anticipation of her mate's return. Elrond had sent him to search for Frodo and his companions. Now they were back and in the middle of a catastrophe.

Aníra huddled where she was as the space in front of her filled with shouts, running feet, and Asfaloth's edgy snorting. The confusion slowed a little when Elrond himself appeared.

"What happened?" he said shortly.

"Morgul blade, two weeks' hence."

"Take him to the Healing Wing. Valar grant we still have time."

Then, almost as soon as it had started, the noise died away, Asfaloth was led to his stall, and Aníra was alone again. Or so she thought.

"Should we go after Mister Frodo?" said a new voice worriedly.

"Fear not," answered Aníra gently. "Lord Elrond is a great Healer and will do all within his power to help your friend. You must be the Hobbits my mate was sent to find. How many of there are you?"

"Three, my Lady," answered the first voice. "I am Samwise Gamgee, with me are Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took."

Aníra rose to her feet.

"It is a pleasure to meet more of your kind. Master Bilbo Baggins is an honoured guest here. Come, I will take you to him."

Having safely delivered her charges, Aníra left them to enjoy their reunion and made her way to her chambers. Hopefully, Glorfindel wouldn't be long. As it was, he was already there, washing away the dust of the road.

"I'm glad you're home safe," she whispered as she found his bare back and leant into his reassuringly warm presence. Glorfindel turned and embraced her, inhaling deeply as he planted a kiss on her head. "Will Frodo survive?"

"Elrond's still working on him." He paused. "I…I felt the One Ring, Aníra, even though I wasn't wearing it. It was cold…powerful…hungry. I only hope it will be destroyed once and for all."

XXX

It wasn't long before Elrond called a secret council to discuss the fate of the Ring. They eventually decided that a brotherhood – formed from the Free Peoples of Arda – would attempt to convey it back to the fires of Mount Doom. Known as the Fellowship of the Ring, the company of nine set out from Imladris towards the end of the year, elven songs of hope ringing in their ears.

XXX

For weeks, the Imladrim waited for news. When it came, laments echoed throughout the Valley. Mithrandír had fallen whilst battling a Balrog. Without him, all hope seemed lost – could such a disparate band of travellers really continue without the bind of his presence?

To live at Imladris was to live at leisure, with much time for soul-searching. Many were now finding their fëar drawn towards Valinor. They craved steadiness and clarity of thought. As a rule, the Firstborn did not strive to gain lands, treasure, or renown like so many mortals did. They were content to live amongst Yavanna's Bounty for as long as it endured. Arda had proven to not always be very adept at providing the optimum conditions for such tranquillity.

Almost as soon as the laments to Mithrandír had died away, the Imladrim received news of his return! He had been born up by Gwihír, the Lord of the Eagles, to Caras Galadhon and healed. He was now a White Wizard, surpassing even the traitorous Saruman in power.

In truth, life at Imladris these days felt rather disjointed – for all the sanctuary provided. Always they were on the edge of battle, always they were waiting for news. Glorfindel in particular bridled at his duties and the bonds they carried. So when they heard that Lothlórien itself had been attacked by the evil that lurked in Dol Guldur, he and Elrond began making plans to send some of their own warriors to help. Elladan and Elrohir also left, but for the city of Minas Tirith, to fight with Men in the very shadows of Mordor.

XXX

The evil was unmade surprisingly quickly.

Sauron was defeated and passed beyond the Circles of the World. Estel was crowned King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor. Elrond kept his word and gave his blessing for Estel's union with Arwen.

The King's return came to mark the beginning of the dominion of Men. The time of the Elves was over.

XXX

"Aníra." Glorfindel shook her gently. "We're about to dock."

Aníra uncurled herself and reached for her slippers, and then her cloak, eeking out the moment for as long as was elvenly possible.

"I'm ready," she said, wondering vaguely whom she was trying to convince more.

Aníra did not like change and these past few weeks had been some of the most tumultuous since her time in Imladris.

Valinor. It was a name that sparked yearning and delight for almost all the Firstborn. It was peace and harmony, not war and hardship. It was home.

Only Aníra seemed to think differently. To her, Valinor was just another place to become acquainted with, another place she would never see. Whatever independence she had gained in Arda, she would always be required to dance to another's tune.

Glorfindel had kept the final vow he made to Elrond, sailing only when Elladan and Elrohir did the same. Aníra had kept mainly to her cabin, only venturing out when her mate provided a steadying arm. Now, they were up on deck waiting to disembark. There seemed to be quite a crowd at the quayside, if the excited buzz was anything to go by.

"Can you see Gwirith and Límdur?" Aníra asked.

"Err…yes, they're there, looking up at us." He briefly took his hand away to wave. "Come on. It's time."

"Aníra!" Gwirith cried, eagerly hugging her cousin. "Welcome home! You're both looking well."

"As are you," Aníra answered, feeling the presence of a small but significant bump at Gwirith's middle.

"Oh, yes, we're very excited. I think it happens quite a lot when people arrive here."

XXX

Gwirith and Límdur had done their best to adapt their home to something resembling familiarity for Aníra, but it was never going to be truly the same. Not when there had been so many questions over when, or even if, they were going to sail. Now that her cousin was in elfling again, Aníra could feel all her old demons beginning to rear their ugly heads.

"You shouldn't think like that," admonished Glorfindel as they took their customary evening stroll along the clifftop.

"It's all I know how to do sometimes." Aníra sighed sadly. "I really should spare a thought for Erestor, though, shouldn't I?"

"Yes…he has become even more withdrawn recently, without any duties to distract him."

You grieve for him, Friend Glorfindel?

Both Aníra and Glorfindel jumped, the latter looking around wildly for the source of the voice.

"My Lady!" he said reverently and bowed.

Aníra curtsied awkwardly.

Welcome to Valinor, Aníra. I am Varda.

The voice echoed deeply inside Aníra's mind, demanding attention.

I have come to welcome home my most loyal of emissaries and to reward him for his steadfast devotion to duty.

"My Lady?" queried Glorfindel nervously.

Do not let your hearts be troubled by Erestor's plight. He is destined to…happen upon a certain elleth in the not too distant future. He will be happy.

"Thank you, My Lady, that gives my fëa joy."

And yet still it grieves – how so, Friend Glorfindel?

"You know why, My Lady."

Say the words.

"I…I would that my mate could see the beauty of Valinor for herself."

Is this your wish also, Aníra?

"I cannot say. 'Tis just a flight of fancy."

Say not so. The Firstborn were born to light, not darkness. Come to me.

Aníra's feet followed the direction the voice seemed to be coming from.

It is time.

Aníra stood there waiting. Then, out of the blackness, came a faint, greyish glow. As it grew steadily brighter, her eyes began to tingle. Brighter and sharper the light and sensation became until both erupted into a white-hot pain that clawed across her scars. She fell to her knees, crying out, and clutching her face.

"Aníra! Stop, you're hurting her!"

The pain did stop, quite suddenly. She found herself enveloped in Glorfindel's arms – both of them were breathing heavily.

Look at me, Aníra.

Aníra didn't want to move from her present position, but neither could she ignore the command. She sat up and felt Glorfindel gently peel away her fingers. She blinked her eyes open. A handsome, grey-eyed ellon was kneeling in front of her, his face framed by long, golden hair. He was smiling broadly at her. His eyes were very moist. He reached out a hand and cupped her cheek.

"My love," he murmured.

Both the voice and the slightly roughed touch were achingly familiar. She held her own hand up in front of her face. Turning it this way and that, she examined every line. Then she moved onto her sleeve. Was that what purple truly looked like? She'd almost forgotten.

Look at me.

Now Aníra's eyes sought Varda, whose brightness outshone everything. She was both solid and nebulous, and seemed to float rather than walk. She approached them now.

It is time, Aníra, to live your life as you were meant to, surrounded by your family.

Then Aníra saw them, an ellon and elleth walking slowly in their direction. The ellon's hair was quite dark, but the elleth's shone a bright, burnished auburn whenever it caught the light. It shone in a way Aníra hadn't seen since…

"Adar? Naneth?" she breathed.

Surely, that should also mean…but the nebulous form had begun to fade.

"Wait! What about my sister?"

Only now did the brightness dim a little.

Alas, there are some hurts that can never fully heal. We know what she did and why. She's not wholly evil but has elected to remain in Mandos' Halls.

Baudhiel's words from so long ago ran through her mind: You weren't supposed to be there.

"Would you please tell her: she's still my sister, my other half."

Varda's only answer was a beatific smile as she finally faded from view.

XXX

Glorfindel turned over, hovering between reverie and wakefulness, and reached for his mate. She wasn't there. Sitting up and brushing his hair away from his face, Glorfindel observed their chamber. It was still dark and none of the shadows resembled Aníra. There was, however, a small chink of light coming in through a gap in the curtains. He padded over to it and looked out.

There she was, clad in only her nightgown, standing in the full, bright glow of Ithil's light, staring up at that benevolent being.

Glorfindel sighed. It had been an odd day, trying to connect with the family he'd never known. Aníra had hardly ever mentioned them. Unconsciously, his hand balled into a fist. He would never, could never forgive Baudhiel, even though it seemed that Aníra still yearned for her in some way. They weren't supposed to have secrets from each other, but could he truly say he knew everything about his mate?

Líndariel and Ainion, and Gwirith and Límdur had all been effusive in their conversation earlier, revelling in the delight of being reunited as a family. For the most part, Aníra had stayed silent, almost hunched up in her usual chair. Everyone had been kind enough not to draw attention to this, but privately Glorfindel had been a little surprised. He'd assumed the recovery of both Aníra's sight, and her parents would have been a source of unparalleled joy.

He leant against the heavy material beside him. Then, quite suddenly, a thought struck him, and he put out a hand. Eyes shut, Glorfindel felt along the velvet curtain, to the bulging tassel, and then to the carvings on the wall. All these different sensations flowed into each other, giving him an idea, but not the full picture. He thought back to something his mate had said earlier, which he'd mentally brushed aside – I'd forgotten how glaring the world could be. He was well aware, of course, of her talent for sensing her surroundings by means other than sight. Was it a 'talent'? Or ability? Whatever it was, it was something unique to her, it made her stand out, but that didn't necessarily mean it was unwelcome or in need of correction. Her true talent was her music, everyone said so, but she was 'the blind musician', not just 'a musician'. As her mate, he should have been concentrating on that, as opposed to her so-called disability.

She had been perfect just the way she was.

Now, as a direct result of his actions, she would have to relearn everything, where things were, and which voice belonged to which Elf. Glorfindel knew his request said far more about him than it did about her.

Varda had praised his steadfast devotion to duty, but now it felt as though his duty had been entirely misplaced. How had Erestor put it? 'No duty is worth that'. His duty had cost him countless years of loneliness, misery, even ridicule. But the Valar knew all that went on in an Elf's fëa, so Varda would have been able to read all this.

There are different types of duty, Friend Glorfindel. You have no cause to regret yours.

Glorfindel went to find a tunic. Out in the garden, he stole up behind Aníra and laid her cloak about her shoulders as gently as he could. She didn't react. Glorfindel leant forward and nuzzled her hair, but she hung her head. He turned her by the shoulders and placed a finger beneath her chin so that she looked at him. There were tear-tracks on her cheeks. Glorfindel embraced her tightly.

Yes, duty came in all guises. His was one that centred entirely on his mate: they would go forward and learn together.

'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.'*

THE END

*1 My thanks to Mr Charles Dickens for his novel A Tale of Two Cities, which provided inspiration for my work.