Cirdan finished the last of his juice, set the glass down decisively, and leveled his gaze at the blonde elf who could not seem to meet it. He had noticed his chief counselor having too many restless nights and skipping a few too many meals. A few difficult conversations led him to believe that Galdor was still having nightmares about the battle he had endured at Gondolin, but he was never allowed to press the subject. The haggard look on the Lord of the Tree’s face, however, told Cirdan that the time had come when he would no longer take no for an answer. “Well pen-neth, you have bathed, slept, and eaten, and there is no one else around, it seems that the time for delay has passed.”

He could see the protest in Galdor’s eyes and quickly squelched it. “Do not tell me you are fine, pen-neth, you weep because you did not die, and sacrifice your blood in an effort for peace. Tell me you are fine again, and I will answer your dishonesty.” He took Galdor’s hand and raised him to his feet. “I have been to many battles my friend, but never have I been to yours. Now is the time.” He searched those eyes the color of forest and saw a depth of pain and longing there that he had never before seen, or perhaps just never noticed. He longed to soothe that pain, to take a hand and simply wipe it away, but that would not be the case. He would make it worse before it became better. But he would not lose the jewel he had before him.

Galdor searched the ancient face that studied his looking for any sign of escape and finding none. He had been running for so long. After Gondolin, he had spent years unable to settle down driven to keep moving and even when he had found his place with Cirdan he could not still. When he stilled the fire came, the fire and the blood. Now it seemed he must turn and face the only battle that he had ever run from, the battle within himself. He allowed himself to be led to the quiet of a sitting room, heard the door close as though from a mile away. He sank down on the sofa and looked up into those steel eyes, and words would not come. They were expected, but they would not come.

Cirdan used the time to take a moment and again study the elflord before him. It seemed that he had forgotten to take these times in their years together, and his chief counselor had paid the price. Cirdan often called Galdor young, but he knew that was not the case. This elflord was ancient and wise, and he needed to realize these things. He needed to realize that he was worthy of the whispers of his valiance, realize he was worthy of those who bore his name still. There was a heart at stake here, and it needed to be done well. He walked over to Galdor and sat down beside him. “Tell me a story. One that I think no one has ever heard.”

Galdor gave a wry laugh “I am not sure what you mean. Everyone knows the story. Lord Glorfindel killed a balrog and Gondolin fell. Isn’t that how it went?” He was surprised at the bitterness he felt, that the ancient battle haunting his soul could be so reduced. He sighed running a hand through his hair. “Gondolin fell.” He nearly snorted at that and shook his head. “That sounds so passive. She did not fall, she was ripped down, murdered, and burned, and I got to watch it all happen. Lucky me, I was a part of history in the making.”

He wished Cirdan would say something, chide him for his tone, tell him to stop wallowing, stop pitying himself, but the sea-lord was silent, simply listening, waiting for him to go on.

When the words finally did come, it seemed as though they would not stop. “Any elfling can tell you the story of Glorfindel’s death. But they cannot tell you the true horror of watching it happen. They cannot tell you what it is like to be helpless as you watch him fall. They cannot tell you what it feels like to carry the elf that you love; they cannot tell you the feel of his blood on their hands. And Cirdan,” Galdor looked up into those eyes that he so admired, finding a strength in meeting them, and for his part Cirdan never flinched. “I pray every night that they can never tell you what it smells like when the elf they call father burns. I can. I can tell you of all of their deaths, I was there for each one.” He was shaking he could tell and was unsure he would be able to get it all out. “The helplessness… the blood… and the fire… they never leave. They are my penance.”

Cirdan took a moment. He had to. The Gondolindrim’s words left him breathless. All of the things that first flooded his mind would be the very wrong response. He could not dismiss this out of hand. It had haunted his friend for far too long to be waved away. He had to handle this carefully. That was the thought that kept coming to his mind since he had first understood the depths of Galdor’s despair. He spoke slowly, “The horrors that plague you are great mellon-nin, and no one would deny you that. And there are memories in our lives that will never leave us, much as we may wish them to.”

He looked his counselor full in the face. “But you will no longer face them alone. You have been trying that for far too long, even you must realize that it is not working.” Cirdan knew what strong memories were like, but he was troubled by Galdor’s inability to put them in their proper place. They hurt like hell, but they were history. “You seem to feel that you have to hold onto them — your penance — but for what sin?” The sea-lord’s worried eyes spoke volumes. “Your life?”

At first Galdor felt relief at Cirdan’s words; he would have someone to help him shoulder the burden, something he desperately needed, but then he pushed that feeling away. Relief was not his to have. “Yes, Cirdan, my life. Everyday that I wake up is a day that should not be mine. I watched them all. I saw the king return into the midst of it refusing even his crown to show to his station. I saw him all of them die for Gondolin, and I could not do it. They call me the most valiant of the Gondolindrim save Turgeon himself, and for what? I was the only one not valiant enough to give it all.”

Cirdan stared at his counselor long and hard. “You forget yourself pen-neth. Everyday that any of us wake is a gift from the Valar. It cannot be stolen. In addition, it was the Valar who foretold Gondolin’s doom. Your death would not have changed that. You fought pen-neth.” He took Galdor’s chin and looked directly into his eyes. “You fought long and hard. Do not do yourself or your people the disservice of saying you did anything less than all that you could.”

Cirdan’s words hit Galdor straight at his core. He could deny his own bravery, indeed his own role, but one thing he would never deny and that was his people. They had been the very blood that coursed through his veins, and in many ways were still. His decision to part ways with the survivors had been a painful if necessary one, but he would never forget them, or their sacrifice. He nodded quietly still a bit shaken. “Forgive me… I never thought … I never ever meant… I just…” the words would not come. “Forgive me.”

Cirdan watched the normally placid elflord through yet one more stage of emotion. This had to be wearing him down. He put a gentle hand on the younger lord’s shoulder. “Mellon-nin, it is not I who has to forgive. It is you. Forgive and remember. Remember that you are and always will be Galdor, Lord of the Folk of the Tree. That your people followed you into the fire and they followed you out of it. And would do so still. You are an elflord mellon-nin, and a damned good one.”

Galdor looked up in surprise. He had never heard his lord use a Westron swear, or any other kind for that matter. “Thank you, Cirdan, I will… I will try.” The road of the past seemed less lonely now, both because of the elflord at his side and the people he had somehow forgotten. Well no, not forgotten, never forgotten, but he had failed to put himself among them. A mistake that he would not make again. He placed a hand on top of the one that was holding his shoulder then asked the question that seemed to keep popping up since he had arrived at the Havens. “So where do we go from here?” He was rewarded to see the ancient elf smile.