Many thanks go to Krait for an excellent beta!

Quenya name translations and further notes at the end.

The worst part of coming to Valinor, Eglainion decided, was the relatives.

Not his own relatives, that was. He'd missed his mother since the moment her ship had cast off from the quay at Lindon and his reunion with her had been joyful. Most of his other relatives were still in the Halls, but he had met his mother's grandfather. Their meeting had been made awkward by an unexpected language barrier - Iswarion had never left Valinor and thus never learned Sindarin, and Eglainion's Quenya was rudimentary at best - but after Eglainion's mother took it on herself to translate they'd discovered a similar temperament and common interests, and the warm look in Iswarion's eyes when he looked at Eglainion transcended languages.

No, his family reunions were proceeding quite well - when he could find the time for them! Because the worst part of coming to Valinor was other people's relatives.

In retrospect, it was really quite obvious. There were no lines of communication between Middle-earth and Aman, not beyond the occasional one-way letter one might press on someone sailing - and with the imposition and no possibility of a response, even the most close-knit families did so rarely at best. As a result, often the only way for a concerned parent, child, uncle, aunt, or distant cousin to discover how their beloved relative was faring across the sea was to ambush newcomers. Eglainion felt as if he'd spent the entire week since he'd arrived fielding questions about people he barely knew. And this after several centuries of regular sailing - he shuddered to imagine how it must have been for someone like his mother, who'd sailed only shortly after the War of Wrath. A wonder she hadn't been mobbed all the way into the Halls. At any rate, Eglainion was thoroughly fed up with the whole ordeal and ready to refuse to answer any questions about anyone he'd ever known on basic principle.

Well. After he finished this interview.

Eglainion shifted uneasily on his chair. The room he'd been led to was not lavishly decorated, but he was enough of a Noldo to have an eye for crafts and he was very aware the elegant carvings currently pressed against his back were well beyond his purse. Not that that was a surprise, given the identity of the couple sitting across from him.

He felt as though his mother's eyes were boring into him, promising dire retribution if his manners slipped. They weren't - she was at his great-grandfather's home, outside Tirion - but Eglainion didn't doubt she would be doing so if it were possible. His mother was so proud of her Gondolin heritage, and if Eglainion dared embarrass her in front of the lady Idril and her husband she'd definitely make him regret it.

"We appreciate your taking the time to speak to us, especially as you must be looking forward to spending time with your family and exploring your new home," Lady Idril was saying, and something in her tone told Eglainion that he hadn't disguised his impatience with this topic as well as his mother would probably have liked. "We won't keep you long. Just- please, tell us." Eglainion felt himself shrink beneath her even stare. "How fares our grandson?"

"Grandson?" Eglainion repeated. The idea rang a faint bell, but-

"Elrond," Lord Tuor said, speaking for the first time. "Elrond Peredhel. Son of Eärendil." His voice was tinged with pain.

Oh, of course. Lord Elrond was the son of Eärendil, everyone knew that, and the fact that Eärendil had been the son of Idril daughter of Turgon and of Tuor of the House of Hador, one of the Edain, was well ensconced in legend. There were so many stories of the last son of Gondolin and the last daughter of Doriath who together had saved all Middle-earth, after all. Eglainion had simply never put these things together.

"Oh! Of course I know of Lord Elrond," Eglainion said. After a week of seeing the disappointment on people's faces when he said he didn't recognise a name, being asked after someone relatively well-known was a relief. "He..."

He...

Come to think of it, considering they were talking of a son of legends and a kinsman of King Gil-galad himself, Eglainion had not seen nor heard much of Lord Elrond.

Lady Idril and Lord Tuor were looking at him steadily. Eglainion gulped.

"He, ah, spends a great deal of time in the library." Eglainion himself was not an avid reader, but had needed to stop by the library briefly several times a week as part of his duties. At one time someone had mentioned to him that the slight figure curled up in a corner perusing a dusty tome was in fact Elrond Eärendilion, and Eglainion had noticed his presence most times after.

In fact, Eglainion thought those might be the only times he had actually seen Lord Elrond, which made answering this question rather difficult. What else, what else. "He... serves as an advisor to the King." Everyone knew that.

They were still looking at him. Eglainion thought he caught a trace of disappointment in Lady Idril's eyes. Sweat trickled down his back. He could feel his mother's wrath looming in his near future.

"Um."

This was ridiculous! Lord Elrond was famous. So Eglainion did not see him regularly - hardly a surprise, considering their different social standings. Still, there had to be more information that he could give than he spends a lot of time in the library!

Oh, of course.

Silently, he blessed his friendship with Ethir, the court's very own gossipmonger. Knowing how cruel rumour could be, Eglainion had tried to stick to what actual fact he knew with previous people who asked for information. However, surely the rules were different for legendary folk. And besides - Eglainion thought of his mother and shivered - there were very high stakes at play here.

"Did you know," he said, dredging up the memory of Ethir's bright eyes and quick words at an evening dance, "that when the Kinslayers attacked Sirion, the sons of Fëanor themselves took Elrond and his brother away?" He shuddered. Unlike most of the Gondolin refugees, his mother had gone to Balar after the fall. Eglainion had been very young, but he still remembered her choked sob when they had heard the news of Sirion. Still remembered the pain as her fingers dug deeply into his shoulders, as though she thought someone would tear him away from her if she did not hold him tight. "They say the Kinslayers wanted them for hostages..."

"Well, that was a colossal waste of time," Idril said after Eglainion had left.

"I don't know." Tuor was frowning darkly. "All rumours, yes, but if there was any truth to some of them-"

Idril knew which of the rumours he was talking about. "You have to remember that the sons of Fëanor are everyone's favourite bogeymen - people will assume they acted in the worst possible way even lacking evidence. And they are lacking evidence. All we've heard has been pure speculation - nobody has reported either Elrond or Elros speaking badly of Maedhros and Maglor. This when it would undoubtedly be much easier for them if they did. And besides..."

Idril closed her eyes. Dimly - so very dimly, almost a memory of a memory rather than something she remembered herself - an image came to her of a redheaded giant reaching for her under the golden light of Laurelin, lifting her, spinning her around as she shrieked with laughter. Why - this cannot possibly be little Itarillë! Walking already? And here your uncle Findekáno spoke of you as though you were still a baby. Later, after the ice, hiding behind her father out of fear of Maedhros' scars and the awful stump of his hand and the darkness in his eyes - and yet that same darkness lifted when he saw her. Stop acting as though he has some ulterior motive - you know he loves children, Uncle Fingon had told her father once after Maedhros had given her some toy, exasperation in his voice.

Idril opened her eyes to see Tirion under the harsh sunlight, the voices of ghosts echoing in her ears. "Even with- everything," she said, "I have trouble believing Maedhros capable of mistreating a child."

Tuor's brow smoothed, although there was still skepticism in his eyes. He, of course, had never met any of the sons of Fëanor, and Idril suspected that at least Curufin's and Celegorm's villainy had featured heavily in the tales Annael had told Tuor when he was young. "I bow before your wisdom, my wife. I expect you are right - as usual." He smiled at her for a moment, then sobered, his expression darkening again. "But should we be wrong... in the halls of Mandos or lost in Middle-earth, I will find a way to make those two regret what they have done to our family."

"No, you wouldn't," Idril said. Her voice echoed harshly in her ears. "Because I'd get there first."

They stared at each other for a long moment in shared fury and grief, then Idril sighed, letting the anger escape with her breath. "But really, rumours aside. What have we learned?"

"Well..." Tuor said slowly, "he frequents the library, but not usually evening entertainment. When we asked, that boy said he went to many of the court's social events, but could not recall seeing Elrond at any of them. He spends time with Gil-galad..."

"...but his name has not been linked with anyone else," Idril seamlessly took up the thread of conversation. It was the fashion in which they'd discussed many things back in Gondolin, both together working out the picture that neither could see on their own. "He seems to keep to himself. In fact, given his status and heritage, he is doing astonishingly well at keeping out of the public eye and letting people forget about him. That boy didn't even remember who we meant until you reminded him."

Tuor was silent. Idril gathered her skirts in her hands as she stood, then walked over to the two portraits hanging against the far wall.

The first was an oil painting that had been brought from the royal court in Númenor via traders from Tol Eressëa, and Idril had paid a handsome price for it as it had been much in demand. The subject matter was a popular one, after all. Many people in Valinor were curious about Elros Tar-Minyatur, the Secondborn king born of the lines of Lúthien and of Fingolfin.

It depicted an uncommonly handsome dark-haired man clad in elegant, richly embroidered dark blue robes, a silver circlet set on his brow and a scepter held at his side. His demeanour seemed serious, even grave, on first glance - but if one looked more closely, it became clear that the artist had captured a glimmer of humour in his eyes, given a slight uplift to the corner of his mouth, as if his happiness were too great to be entirely contained behind the mask of a stern king.

"Elros seems to be doing well," she said, letting her fingers hover just above the surface of the painting. "From all reports, he makes an excellent king - Númenor is thriving. And he is married, with children. Grandchildren, even." She shook her head in amazement. "Part of me grieves for him already, but it sounds as though through his choice, he followed his heart to happiness." She trailed her fingertips over the wood of the frame, then stepped to the side.

The second portrait was a simple work in charcoal, one that Teithedis, a minor artist from Lindon, had drawn from memory. The only thing Idril had paid for it was a cup of tea, for Teithedis had refused her money. Keep it, she'd said. The sea was calling me, I could not stay, but I already miss my children so much it hurts. My eldest had wed just before I left - I too will have grandchildren born across the sea, I too will be forced to rely on snatches of gossip from strangers to hear of them. I see my fate in your face. How could I demand payment from you? Idril had been struck wordless as she fought against tears, and in the end Tuor - who usually preferred to leave social niceties to his wife - had been the one to thank the artist for her generosity.

Next to each other, the two pictures seemed almost like a cleverly made illusion designed to trick the eye. If someone had asked Idril to name a physical difference between the two men they depicted, she would not have been able to. They had the same straight nose, the same arching brows, the same chin, the same long, fine-boned fingers- and yet if you viewed both as a whole, Elros was unquestionably of the Edain and Elrond of the Eldar.

Nor was that the only difference. Physically identical they might seem, but where Elros stared straight and proud at the viewer, Elrond seemed to have been caught in the act of ducking out of sight, shoulders hunched. And there was no spark of happiness in Elrond's eyes; unlike Elros', his serious expression was unleavened by any glimpse of mirth.

Idril did not think that lack could be ascribed to a deficiency on part of the artist.

A warm weight against her side-

Idril looked up at her husband as he wrapped an arm around her waist. "It doesn't have to mean anything, you know," Tuor said. "Perhaps our grandson is simply not comfortable with social... fripperies. I can hardly blame him for preferring to spend his time in the library."

"Of course you can't," Idril said tartly, "you're the one he gets it from!" She felt more than heard the deep, rumbling laugh that was Tuor's answer.

"I just wish he seemed to have a friend," she continued. "Gil-galad is all well and good, but advising a king is not the same thing. I saw it often enough with my father."

"Well-"

A knock at the door. "My lady? My lord?"

Idril stepped away from Tuor's side, bemused. She was not expecting any callers this afternoon. "Come in, Helyanwë. What is it?"

The door opened, and Helyanwë entered. Their housekeeper, usually so unflappable, looked stunned. Idril and Tuor shared a concerned glance.

"It's- there's a lord at the door, asking to see you. He calls himself Laurefindil and says he is- he is- he says he is just returned from Mandos!"

Idril clutched at a side table, unsteady from shock. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Tuor whirling around, mouth working soundlessly.

"Shall I let him i-"

But Helyanwë was never given the chance to finish her sentence as Idril, balance recovered, rushed past her. She hastened down the stairs, to the doorway onto the street. Outside, waiting patiently, there was indeed a very familiar-looking man. The hair he was named for was golden as sunlight and touched by no fire, the blue eyes twinkling as happily as she remembered from her childhood, his smile warm and gloriously alive-

When Thorondor bore his corpse to them in the Cirith Thoronath all of his hair had been scorched away, most of his face burned clear to the bone, and they had only been able to recognise him by the charred remnants of his festival clothes-

"Glorfindel!" Idril cried, and threw her arms around him.

And in the subsequent confusion of tearful reunions the topic of Elrond was dropped, for a time.

When Idril reached the doorway, Anairë embraced her. Idril relaxed into it, letting her head rest on Anairë's shoulder. Her grandmother's arms and the scent of her perfume always made Idril feel like a little girl again, made her recall vague impressions of golden light and warm laughter in the time before the ice.

Usually, she found that irritating.

But today-

"I am sorry for your loss," Anairë whispered into her hair.

"I don't- I shouldn't- it was his choice." Her voice was heavy with grief, but her eyes were dry. Sometimes Idril thought she had cried all her tears after Gondolin. "It was what he wanted. The tales they tell say he decided it was his time, say he went freely with a smile on his face and no fear in his heart. I just-"

Idril swallowed the wail in her voice, tried again. "I just wish I could have met him!"

"Yes," Anairë murmured. "It is hard, losing grandchildren you have never seen."

That comment made Idril freeze, Anairë's arms around her suddenly feeling suffocating. It was not the first time Anairë had steered them towards the topic of Maeglin, not the first time Idril had diverted them. But that she would bring him up today of all days... Idril was starting to think she would need to be more emphatic.

"Quite." Idril pulled back from the embrace, voice clipped.

Anairë stepped back herself, an unreadable look in her eyes. "...I am sorry, granddaughter. Perhaps you would like to come in for some tea?"

Idril would.

They spoke of light topics at first; Anairë had attacked, Idril successfully defended, and now they both needed to find their footing away from the conversational precipice that was Anairë's other grandchild. Anairë spoke of a new potter in the marketplace, whose wares were excellent. Idril commented on the price of cloth this season. Anairë wished to know whether Idril and Tuor were planning to attend this year's summer festival, nodded casually and moved on when Idril shook her head.

(She did not understand, of course - nobody who had not been in Gondolin at its end could truly comprehend the fear that clutched at Idril's heart when she saw the banners and heard the laughter of a festival. But Anairë accepted and did not press, and for that Idril was grateful.)

They talked about family and friends. Idril dipped into her worries about how Glorfindel still felt restless and purposeless, unable to adapt to the quiet unchanging peace of Valinor. Anairë asked for news of Finrod, who had taken to Idril's husband with some speed after returning from Mandos and now visited regularly. ("It is just because he is so fond of the Edain and I am the only one in Valinor," Tuor had demurred, up to the point where Idril told him he had plenty of other qualities to recommend him, she did not approve of self-deprecation and if he did not cease she would commission a ballad of the heroics of Tuor and have it performed in front of Finarfin's full court.)

But Idril's loss loomed large in her mind, and eventually the conversation wound back around to Elros.

"Sometimes I wish I'd stayed." Idril gazed down into her tea. "What did I achieve by coming here? I wanted to plead for aid, but they never even let us try. They put us to sleep until the War was over, and it was my son and daughter-in-law who convinced the Valar to come to our aid. If I'd stayed, maybe my presence - the presence of their own blood kin whom they'd known in Valinor - would have deterred the Kinslayers. I would have known my grandsons, might have raised them even. If I'd stayed-"

Tuor.

Tuor had been aging when they left. The Valar had sundered him from the fate of his kindred at Máhanaxar... in Valinor. If she'd stayed, Tuor would have died and gone beyond the circles of Arda, never to be with her until after the world's end.

She could not have stayed.

But oh, how it hurt sometimes.

"Sometimes I wish I'd gone," Anairë said bitterly. "To Middle-earth. I could have done something. I could have helped. Instead of staying behind, watching as my husband and my children marched to their deaths." Her fingers clenched around the handle of her teacup until the knuckles turned white.

And you would have died.

The knowledge came to Idril with the same clarity, the same coldness as foresight. She would have come, yes. She would have survived the march across the Helcaraxë, would have held Idril in one arm and Father in her other and let their tears soak into her shirt after Mother fell beneath the ice. (Uncle Fingon had held her then, awkwardly, while Father wept alone.) In Nevrast, in Vinyamar, she would have argued with Father and Aunt Aredhel - desperate arguments with the raised voices echoing beyond closed doors, Idril curled up in her bed with her hands over her ears - and in the end would have stayed behind with her husband and eldest son when the rest of her family set off to Gondolin.

She had always been close to Finarfin's sons, the children of her good friend Eärwen, would have been riding to Dorthonion to visit them at the time of the Dagor Bragollach; the fires would have caught her in the open with nowhere to run. One last, most desperate grief for Grandfather, one more reason to ride forth to challenge Morgoth - eight times would he have hewn the Enemy instead of seven, before succumbing. Two bodies would the eagles have borne to Gondolin, and Idril would have watched, hiding behind a pillar, as her father fell to his knees before his parents' corpses-

Idril closed her eyes. Breathed in. Breathed out. Felt the warmth of the teacup in her hands, the sting of steam in her nostrils.

"I think it was for the best, like this," she said once she was certain no words hollow with truth would spill out beyond her lips. (She knew better, now. Not all such things were meant to be told.) "Someone had to stay here to welcome the rest of us home."

Anairë had been the first person Idril met after Máhanaxar, Anairë rushing towards her, tears running down her face, breath choking on sobs. That had been another time Idril had not minded her embrace.

Now Anairë looked at her. "As you will too, granddaughter. When they return from Mandos, we will both be there to welcome them back. And one day," she reached across the table to take Idril's hands in her own, "one day your Elrond will sail, and when his ship lands at the quay in Tol Eressëa you will be there, waiting."

Idril bowed her head. Paltry comfort, a day that would not come for Ages yet, but comfort all the same.

"How does Elrond, do you know?"

Thinking of the one grandson she had remaining, Idril groaned. "From what scraps I have managed to gather? Badly." She shook her head. "A former servant in the palace in Forlond sailed recently. He told me that before, Elrond had been - kind. Not very open, but in the way of shyness rather than arrogance. He knew the servants' names, treated them with respect and tried to make certain they incurred no extra work on his account. But after Elros' death, he said, Elrond shut himself in his room for a long time - Gil-galad himself had to come before he would leave. And they still see very little of him."

Anairë frowned. "I suppose it is not much of a surprise. The death of his twin must have affected him terribly. I knew Fëanáro's youngest, you know - they were inseparable."

"I would be happier to wait for news of his recovery," Idril said, carefully ignoring the mention of the Fëanorians, "if I hadn't already been worrying about him before - with such a loss in addition, I fear whether he'll recover at all. From all reports, he's been solemn and reclusive from the day he joined Gil-galad's forces during the War of Wrath, and the only person he is at all close to is Gil-galad himself. In fact," her voice turned wry, "listening to people's tales, I find myself distinctly reminded of Tuor."

Anairë's mouth twitched into a smile. "And what does your husband say, when you tell him his grandson acting like him is such ground for worry?"

Idril raised an eyebrow. "What does he say?" she responded with mock seriousness. "He says 'yes dear,' as he of course should!"

They both laughed for a moment, then Idril shook her head. "Honestly - if I were reminded of the Tuor I know now, I would be content. After all, if I did not think him a fine, worthwhile man as he is, I would hardly have married him! But instead I am reminded of Tuor as he was when I first saw him, just after he and Voronwë had arrived. And he was... unhappy, then. He barely spoke a word, hid from the servants assigned to him, took his meals outside regular hours in order to avoid people. After so many years of harsh life in the wilds he didn't know how to interact with the people of fair Gondolin, almost felt himself unworthy to be in our presence - and so he withdrew."

"That sounds different," Anairë said, nodding. "Were you the one who drew him out of his shell, back then?"

"Me? Oh no!" Idril bit back a giggle. "At that point, he could not string two words together in my presence. He blushed, tripped over his feet, spilled wine on himself, and in the end took to fleeing any room I entered. It was highly disconcerting! No, it was Laurefindil who first befriended him and made sure he-"

Oh!

Several facts Idril had been fretting at and turning over and over in her mind snapped into a whole new configuration, as if they were pieces of some clever Fëanorian jigsaw, and she had finally found the way they locked together.

One grandson was lost to her, through his own choice. But one she had remaining. And maybe, just maybe, she would be able to do something for him.

"Itarillë? What are you plotting?" Apparently something had shown on her face, because Anairë sounded wary.

"Thank you for the tea, grandmother. It was delicious," Idril said as she stood. "I am very sorry that I have to depart so abruptly, and hope we can catch up again soon. But I have an idea, and I am afraid I will be very poor company until I discuss it with my husband." She paused. "And Laurefindil."

"Return to Middle-earth?" Glorfindel leaned forward on his chair, his eyes glittering with excitement. Idril thought, satisfied, that for the first time since his return he seemed unburdened.

Next to him, Finrod choked on his wine. Tuor reached over to thump him on the back. Idril glanced at the two of them and shrugged. She did not know Finrod that well herself, but if Tuor trusted him to be part of this she would not ask him to leave.

"Well, it makes sense," Idril offered. "You are obviously not happy in Aman. At the same time, in Middle-earth Elrond desperately needs someone to keep an eye on him, and you have experience with... similarly difficult cases." She glanced at Tuor, who was studiously avoiding all of their gazes. "Would you be interested?"

"That you even need to ask- yes! I cannot think of anything I would like more!" Then Glorfindel slumped back in his chair, the animation leaving his expression. "But there is no way the Valar would ever allow it."

"The Valar do not desire any more of our people to leave Aman," Finrod said quietly. "None who live here now may set foot on the shores of Middle-earth."

Idril looked at him, surprised. Finrod did not sound as if he were reciting facts that had no relevance to his life. But he had seemed happy to settle back into his interrupted life in Valinor; he had taken on the duties of heir to the High King with grace, and his marriage to Amarië was five years past. Idril had seen no sign that he desired to return to Middle-earth, and she prided herself on noticing such things.

"I wanted to go back when I had just returned from the Halls," Finrod admitted. "For me it was the responsibility I had held in Middle-earth - I felt I must go back to take care of my people, my realm, watch over my remaining kin, and make sure Beren had managed to survive. And as it so happened..." His mouth twisted. "Nargothrond had fallen, my people destroyed, Orodreth and Finduilas dead with them many years ago already. Beren lived a long and full life and died in the manner of his people, and Galadriel and Finellach were getting on quite well on their own. When I heard what had transpired, I realised there was no need for me on those shores. I found peace."

Unlike Glorfindel, Idril thought but didn't say.

"But I did ask, and was refused," Finrod continued. "The Valar will only consider relaxing those restrictions when faced with grave need."

Idril let her eyes slide past Finrod to her husband. Once she had caught his gaze Idril raised a questioning eyebrow. He gave her a slight nod.

So he too thought that now was the time to speak of this.

"There is need," Idril said. "Before, I'd hoped not to burden you with this, but..." Her eyes dropped to her lap, unseeing. "I have been dreaming."

Terrible, vivid dreams, of fire and of death, that left her sitting bolt upright in her bed at night with a scream locked in her throat. Dreams after which Tuor would hold her, stroking her hair wordlessly, their tears mingling in the silence.

Foresight. Idril sometimes found herself wondering why people called it a gift.

"A shadow rises in Middle-earth," she said, and the truth borne on her words tasted like blood. "It will not come this day, this year, this decade, but it will come. There will be grief and pain and darkness yet, and the end is too far to see."

The three men stared at her. Idril wondered, for a moment, whether they would believe her. Tuor would, it was no question, and after Gondolin's fall Glorfindel must know better than to doubt. Finrod, however, did not yet know her that well. And it would hardly be first time she had been dismissed.

But, of course, Finrod was Galadriel's brother, and if certain tales were true had some touch of the foresight himself. There was no trace of skepticism in his eyes as he looked at her, only a slowly dawning horror.

"This is ill news indeed. Why didn't you say?" he asked.

Idril shrugged. "What would the point have been? All I could have done was make you worry, with no way to help."

"But that is no reason to keep these things only to yourself! Some burdens are to be shared, do you understand?" Idril was startled by the anger in Finrod's words. The two of them were barely acquaintances, but he spoke as though remonstrating a close friend.

Finrod's blue-grey gaze was fixed on her, but less piercing than it should be, as if he were not quite looking at her but instead through her-

Oh. Of course.

He missed his sister.

"I did. I shared them with my husband, cousin of my father," Idril said, putting subtle emphasis on the last four words. Much as she sympathised with his plight - given her own situation, how could she not? - he would learn to deal with her other than as an imitation of Galadriel, or else he would not deal with her at all.

Finrod blinked, his eyes clearing to finally focus on the present. "I- oh. I see. I apologise for my presumption, cousin. For a moment I- well, no matter."

Glorfindel, who had - probably wisely - stayed silent while the Finwëans argued, now cleared his throat. "A shadow grows, you say?" he prompted. "So you believe the Valar might consent to send me back to - what, aid them in the fight?"

"That and keep watch for its rising," Idril said. "And give warning, to start. I do not know if they will be aware of it. This came to me by foresight, and-"

And it was a chancy thing, foresight, manifesting in many different ways, with no guarantee that danger picked up by one might be seen by any others. And there were not many left across the sea with that ability. Círdan, whose sight came from the Sea, alien to Idril and thus nothing she could predict. Galadriel, who kept her own counsel. And, of course, her only remaining grandson.

(Ai, Elros-)

It was a turn of events that made Idril want to scream. Foresight was something she had been battling with her entire life, something she had been quietly pleased to find Eärendil had no trace of, and now one of his sons had inherited it. Oh, the tales said he had it from Melian, but of course people would jump to the flashier explanation - and besides, Maia or no, if Melian had truly had foresight then her actions in Beleriand beggared belief.

No, it was Idril's gift Elrond had inherited and Idril could have taught him how to deal with it. Could have taught him how to interpret the dreams, what to share freely, what to share among trusted friends and what to keep to oneself, how to walk the rope bridge between putting a warning too far out of one's mind and letting it drive one distraction, all the many things she had had to work out on her own. But Elrond had been raised not by his family but by two who, one only had to look at their actions to see, had all the precognitive ability of a rock - and now the Sundering Seas lay between them. Idril could not help him. Like her, Elrond would have to find his way through it alone.

And in this state of affairs, she could not count on him to know what the dreams meant.

Idril realised that she had been speaking before she drifted into thought, and the others were waiting patiently for her to continue. "I am sorry," she said. "I was distracted. I mean to say - this came to me by foresight, and I am not... entirely certain there is anyone left over the Sea who is well-placed to hear such a message."

"And besides, even if someone hears it there is no guarantee the others will listen to them." Tuor added. Tuor, who had been at her side through all the final years of Gondolin as her warnings went unheeded. Idril also noticed that Finrod looked rueful, Glorfindel chagrined.

"Point very well taken," Glorfindel said. "So, my lady. You would want me to warn, to guard, to fight, and - during all this - to watch over your grandson?"

"Yes. That's what I'm asking you for," Idril answered. "But - Glorfindel - this is a request, not an order, do you understand? If you don't want to-"

Idril was starting to rethink this. It felt like the right thing to do, but... she had been ignoring the dreams, and talking about them made her realise how much danger she would be sending him into. Taking care of her grandson was one thing, but Glorfindel had died for her family once already. How was it she was standing here and asking he risk it again?

"Don't be ridiculous, of course I want to!" Glorfindel, on the other hand, clearly had no patience for Idril's quiet guilt. "It's... ever since returning I've always felt there was something I had left to do in Middle-earth. I hadn't mentioned it because it sounds so silly - I died killing a Balrog, after all! What more could I have to do after that? How much closure can one need?"

Idril gasped at Glorfindel's casual reference to his death, but he continued speaking before anyone could get a word in between. "But I couldn't get settled here because that nagging feeling of something undone just wouldn't go away. I hear the things you ask of me and something in me tells me yes, this is what I am here for, this is what I have been waiting for without knowing. My heart cries out to fight the shadow again. And besides..."

Glorfindel's smile was like the first sunrise. "I think I should like to meet your grandson, Idril, Tuor. He sounds like an interesting young man."

"Thank you," Idril said, feeling as if a weight had dropped from her. Tuor echoed her words a beat later.

"So, it seems we have a plan," Finrod said. "And can I add that if you have the time, I'd appreciate you also occasionally looking in on Artanis and Finellach, Glorfindel?" He smiled as though trying to make a joke of it, but the pain in his eyes betrayed him. "The whole thing sounds fair enough, but we have to convince the Valar. Who is going to present this idea to them?"

"I will," Idril said decisively. "I came here to plead for the Valar to aid those left behind in Middle-earth. They never gave me the chance. They owe me an audience. And as it so happens, those left behind need aid once again."

She smiled.

"I am certain they will listen to reason."

Following a page through the halls of the palace, thinking on what he'd seen thus far, Glorfindel decided he was going to like Lindon.

It was not something he had entirely expected - not Glorfindel who had lived in Gondolin, not in this kingdom formed of refugees' refugees. He had thought he would need time to get used to the lack of the exquisite beauty that had characterised the city of his heart. But the hodgepodge that was Forlond had its own charm. Buildings that would not have been out of place in Tirion side-by-side with ones clearly of Teleri extraction, across from which stood tall red oaks with telain nestled in their branches. In his journey to the palace, he'd overheard not just the Sindarin he knew from Gondolin but Doriathrin, Falathrin and other dialects he hadn't heard before, Nandorin, several languages he guessed were of the Edain, the occasional phrase of Quenya, even a snatch of what he thought might be Khuzdul. Falathrim fishermen exchanged friendly greetings with Noldor craftsmen, a Man gossiped with a baker whose dark hair was braided in a Doriathrin style, a Dwarven trader showed a toy to a wide-eyed little girl Glorfindel thought came from one of the Avari tribes-

It was as if the last survivors of Beleriand had decided to put aside their ancient grudges and start afresh, grasping the chance to build their lives with neither Doom nor Enemy nipping at their heels. Something Glorfindel felt he could get behind.

Provided, he thought, sobering as he remembered Idril's warnings, they got the chance.

He was pulled out of his musings when the page stopped before a door that looked identical to those they'd been passing. "They're in here. I'll announce you."

Glorfindel nodded, falling behind the page as he entered the room. Inside, four Elves were bent over a map. They looked up at the intrusion.

"Your Majesty, Lord Elrond, Lady Gwalothiel, Captain Laeglach! May I present the lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, lately of Gondolin."

Glorfindel looked at this new High King, Orodreth's son who had gained the crown after Turgon's death, with some curiosity.

Gil-galad did not share the golden hair of his kin. Dark-haired and grey-eyed, clad in a plain shirt and trousers, in appearance he could have been taken for some minor Sindarin guard or advisor. Only the unfamiliar silver crown on his head (Glorfindel remembered Idril mentioning that the crown of the High King had been lost with Turgon) and the quiet air of authority surrounding him spoke of his true rank.

"It is an honour, your majesty," Glorfindel said, bowing deeply.

The king seemed to have been struck speechless by the introduction. Glorfindel couldn't find it in himself to mind, as it gave him more opportunity to study the person in the room he was most interested in.

There was little in Elrond's appearance that spoke of Idril, of Tuor, of Turgon or of Elenwë - little of Eärendil either, Glorfindel suspected, although he had been only a small child when Glorfindel saw him last. Tuor had said, glancing at the portraits on their wall, that Elrond and Elros appeared to take after their mother, but Glorfindel had never met Elwing.

Instead, he found himself suddenly reminded of the Lay of Leithian, long ago when it had first been brought to Gondolin by Tuor. He could almost smell the mountain air, hear the bards singing... Grey as evening were her eyes, her mantle sewn with lilies fair, but dark as shadows was her hair-

Glorfindel had never met Lúthien either, could not explain why he should suddenly feel so certain that Elrond bore an astonishing resemblance to his great-grandmother.

As far as appearance went, that was. The eyes might have been different, but something in Elrond's calm grey gaze put Glorfindel in mind of Idril - and the way he managed to fade into the background despite his striking looks was definitely Tuor all over.

"Well, this is certainly unexpected." Gil-galad appeared to have found his voice. "Lord Glorfindel, it is a great honour to meet you. I had not expected to get the chance this side of the ocean. On which note," he cocked an eyebrow, "I have to admit I find myself very curious about why, exactly, the Valar have done something so unprecedented as sending someone returned from Mandos back to Middle-earth. Is there any insight you can grant?"

Glorfindel closed his eyes, remembering his more official mission. "The Valar feel that darkness will come again to Middle-earth. Perhaps not this year, perhaps not this century, but one day it will be there. I come in warning, I will keep watch, and when the time comes I will stand at your side and give aid."

Gil-galad's shoulders slumped. "Ill news indeed. Círdan had mentioned he did not believe peace would last forever, but I had hoped..." He sighed. "Let us hope that darkness will be long in coming. Until then, I find myself curious about something."

He leaned forward, fixing Glorfindel with his gaze. "You say you will stand at 'our' side? Do you come here to serve your people, or, perhaps, anyone in particular?"

Well. The new king was astute, it seemed.

"Of course I am loyal to you, your majesty, as a Noldo and so one of your subjects," Glorfindel said, choosing his words carefully. "However, I am sworn to King Turgon and to his line. My lord is still in the Halls," a flash of pain, "my lady Idril lives in Valinor, the lord Eärendil is... out of reach, and I doubt the kings of Númenor have need of one such as I. As such, my personal loyalty belongs to one person."

As he went on his knee before Elrond, Glorfindel noticed that Gil-galad looked satisfied. Elrond, on the other hand, looked poleaxed. His expression was - Glorfindel had to fight a smile - very reminiscent of Tuor's upon first being shown into Turgon's palace. At the time, he'd suspected that if it weren't for Ulmo's message Tuor would have run off and hidden somewhere. It was later that he'd learned the man was made of sterner stuff.

"Elrond son of Eärendil, son of Idril, daughter of Turgon, my sword is yours."

Elrond's throat worked soundlessly.

"And as my first act in your service, my lord, I would like to give you some advice."

Some moments, Glorfindel decided, called for a dramatic pause.

"Please find the time to write to your grandmother on occasion. Many people in Valinor will thank you for it."

Quenya and otherwise obscure canon character names:

Laurefindil - Glorfindel (Q.)
Itarillë - Idril (Q.)
Findekáno - Fingon (Q.)
Fëanáro - Fëanor (Q.)
Artanis - Galadriel (Q.)
Finellach - Gil-galad (S.), a name coming from some of the HoME volumes.

I tend to subscribe to Gil-galad son of Orodreth - which is why Finrod worries about him and Anairë only has two grandchildren. As a result, for his name I chose Finellach over Ereinion because I tend to associate that name with Gil-galad son of Fingon, and over Rodnor on the basis of sheer aesthetic preference and some headcanon issues.

Quenya names are used where appropriate. They are not used throughout because Idril thinks in Sindarin, and speaks Sindarin with some people and Quenya with others.

OC name dictionary (for the curious)

Eglainion - "son of the forsaken" (S.) He was born not long after the Fall of Gondolin.
Iswarion - "garlanded in wisdom" (Q.)
Ethir - "spy" (S.) I figure this is more of a nickname!
Teithedis - "female artist" (S.)
Helyanwë - "rainbow" (Q.)
Gwalothiel - "daughter of the blossom" (S.) This name is more ironic, as she is a very tough, no-nonsense advisor of Gil-galad's.
Laeglach - "green flame" (S.)

These are thanks to the Sindarn name generator on the Elffetish website and the name generators at Merin Essi ar Quenteli. I apologise for any inaccuracy!