Nárië 1976

When the road began its bend to the left, its narrow track curving in an eastward line around the hill on which Bree was built, Glorfindel urged Wilwarin into a swift canter. The mare swung from her ground-covering lope into a much speedier gait. After an hour, the elf allowed her to slow. He dropped from her back and began to run beside her, giving her the needed breather.

The whole of the road from Bree to Rivendell was covered in this fashion, and the pair reached the hidden valley a day’s march ahead of the returning army. Glorfindel nodded curtly to the elf who appeared in the courtyard to take Wilwarin. “Cool her well,” he ordered. “Then give her an extra ration of oats.”

“As you wish, milord.” The elf looked curiously after the cloaked rider who hurried into the halls. He frowned at the lathered and dusty mare standing exhausted at his side. “Bad news?” he inquired. Wilwarin snorted, and looked away.

Glorfindel strode swiftly through the various passages, searching for Erestor or Elrond. He met Celebrían near the Hall of Fire. The Noldo bowed. She acknowledged his gesture with a smile and a nod – then frowned. “Wait. Where did you spring from?”

“Outside, milady.”

“Lord Glorfindel?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, milady.”

The elf-woman tapped a slippered foot impatiently. “Do I have to draw the information from you bit by bit? I had thought better of you. Tell me!”

A hint of Glorfindel’s dazzling smile showed as he shoved back his hood. “Nay, never fear, milady. I bring good news. The young prince’s cause was victorious, and it would seem that the Witch-King has fled the North. The victorious armies will shortly descend upon your peaceful home, bringing with them your currently unharmed sons, and demand hospitality.”

“Oh?”

“There’s to be a wedding by Midsummer.”

“Here?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Between?”

“Prince Aranarth and his betrothed, the Lady Silamadan.”

“And you’re in a hurry to bring this news to my husband?”

“Yes, milady.”

“And I’m hindering you?” she inquired, smiling now that her fears had been allayed.

“Just a little, milady. Could I trouble you for the current whereabouts of your husband? Then we can part; you to plan for the influx in Rivendell’s population with Erestor, and I to impart a less abbreviated version of recent events to Lord Elrond.”

“Certainly – if you’ll allow me just one more frivolous question. Did you learn that method of speech from Soronmir, or did he learn it from you?”

Glorfindel laughed. “‘Tis hard to say, milady. I could command it before Soronmir became my squire, yet I was hardly the one to teach him manners. I believe he was born with them.”

“I believe you. My husband is out in the gardens, speaking with the gardeners.”

“Thank you, milady.” The Noldo bowed again, and went outside. The valley immediately adjourning the Last Homely House had been carefully cultivated into terraced gardens that went down to the busily chattering river. Paths were laid in such a fashion that one could lose oneself amid a profusion of beauty and be alone and yet also be within a few steps of the house.

Glorfindel paused at the head of the path, and listened. Birdsong was wafted toward him on the light breeze, but he could also hear the musical conversation of elvish voices. The direction he chose was seemingly random, yet the words became clearer and more distinct as he went.

The Noldo paused respectfully at the edge of a bit of lawn. Elrond and two of the elves in charge of the gardens were examining an ornamental tree and discussing how to coax it on to greater efforts. Glorfindel clasped his hands loosely behind his back and waited to be noticed.

Elrond straightened from his examination of the tree and in so doing, saw the tall elf-lord standing to one side. His fair hair gleamed in the sun, and a faint smile was on his lips. The Peredhel knew him at once. “Lord Glorfindel – what brings you here?”

“News, milord.”

“Has the army returned?”

“Not yet, exactly.”

Elrond dismissed the gardeners, and motioned his newest advisor to follow him into the house.

Once seated on opposite sides of Elrond’s paper-strewn desk Glorfindel began his story. As the tale unfolded, Elrond laced his fingers together and knit his brows. He listened intently as the battle was traced from the Fornlad to the Ettenmoors. The Noldo paid particular attention to the flight of the Witch-King, then passed on and ended with Aranarth’s expedition to Bree.

The Peredhel met the piercing silver-blue gaze as Glorfindel finished speaking. “And where do you suppose the Witch-King has gone to lick his wounds?”

Glorfindel picked up a piece of paper. “May I use the back of this?”

Elrond gave it a cursory glance. “Certainly.”

Glorfindel then commandeered inkwell and pen and rapidly sketched a serpentine line down one side of the page. “Shoreline,” he explained, and added several strokes that seemed to immitate water. Two sets of staggered jagged lines became mountains. Several large blots were added and labeled: Mithlond, Fornost, Carn Dûm, Rivendell, and Dol Guldor. A smaller blot under the apex of the triangle formed by Mithlond, Fornost and Rivendell was labeled Bree. The elf-lord then made a large X under Fornost. “Here is where the battle began. It travelled to here-” the pen swept up to the second line of mountains and made another X a little ways below Carn Dûm.

“After the battle, I took the opportunity to scout around and discovered the Witch-King’s trail, oh, about here.” A third X was added to the sketch. “As far as I followed, it ran like so.” A thick line swept down through the mountains. “And, I hypothesize it will continue in that direction and that I can cut the trail here.” Glorfindel extended his original line down through Dol Guldor and made another from Rivendell into the mountains that intersected the path of flight.

Elrond studied the crude map. “The marksÂ… such as they areÂ… would be days old by the time you could find them. How would you know they are the ones you seek?”

“Do you remember my mentioning the eagle who followed our progress from Rivendell and agreed to act as courier between the two armies?”

“Yes.”

“He also agreed to follow the trail for me. I’ll know.”

Elrond frowned. “Would he really pass so close to Dol Guldor?”

The Noldo shrugged. “I would hardly accept this sketch as incriminating evidence. It’s as accurate as memory can make it, but I was pointing out generalities rather than geographical fact. Do you have a map handy in this organised chaos?”

“Organised chaos?” protested Elrond.

“Is it just clutter?”

“Organised chaos.” A scroll was extricated from an unsteady pile and rolled out to view. “As the crow flies, your theory has merit.”

“But it can’t be provedÂ… yet.”

“And what if the Witch-King decided to ambush you?”

“I dare say that’s a possibility.”

“You don’t believe it probable?”

“I am quite capable of taking care of myself,” said Glorfindel, sounding slightly miffed. “You weren’t worried when I was surrounded by several thousand elves.”

“That’s exactly why I wasn’t worried.”

“I’ll hardly be alone in the mountains.”

“Oh?”

“Wilwarin and the eagle will be along, and I trust her ears and nose. Need I detail the qualities possesed by an eagle?”

“All right,” Elrond gave up. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning. I shouldn’t be too long.”

“You don’t plan to chase the Witch-King all the way to Dol Guldor?”

“And storm it single-handedly? No, of course not.”

“You wouldn’t be alone, you’d have Wilwarin and the eagle.”

“True, but I’d never hear the end of it.”