for love of the wide world by Perching  

The ship of Westernesse towered over every other vessel in the haven—and outshone them, too. Where the Elven-ships were the gray and white of the fog which so often blanketed the Lune, the Men’s ship called to mind fire, even the Sun: cream sails and a cream hull, painted with swirling designs of red and gold. It was not at all a swan-ship of the Sea-elves, but Gildor could not help but think of them, and think this ship almost as stunning.

His heart hurt. One of Lord Círdan’s assistants had told him the sight of a ship of Westernesse was not one to miss, and they had been right, but they could not have known how it would make Gildor ache for the Sea. The sooner he left the Grey Havens, he thought, the better.

An Elf standing beside him on the quay said, “Who is that?”

She pointed to a Man who stood near the bow of the ship, hands light on the railing, leaning over it as if to drink in all the sights of the haven. His hair was long and golden, and he wore a fine raiment of gold and green: so fine that Gildor might have guessed him the King of Westernesse if he had not known that the current monarch, fresh to the throne, was a Queen.

“A lord out of the Elder Days, he seems,” the Elf went on, making Gildor smile a little, for she spoke with an awe only possible from one born well after the Elder Days.

“You are right!” her friend said. “Those colors, that hair! He could almost be Glorfindel of fallen Gondolin.”

On the pier, an Elf called up to the Men on the ship, but the wind stole his words from Gildor’s ears. Someone answered, and then, in the clear, musical voice of an Elf, the figure in gold answered as well.

The Elves on the pier fell still. One Elf turned to another, whispered in her ear, and sent her running towards the quay. As she went, past the quay and up the path towards Círdan’s house, a murmur went with her: “An Elf! An Elf! Out of the Uttermost West!”

“Do not tell me,” one of the two friends beside Gildor said. “An Elf with such a likeness! It must be Glorfindel himself!”

It was Glorfindel himself: or so he claimed. On the pier, he was swarmed until Círdan arrived and parted the crowd like water. For long minutes he and Glorfindel spoke together, their heads bowed, Círdan’s hands clasped behind his back.

Gildor watched from the quay, feeling strange. He had not thought it possible. Nobody had. It was not even that the Powers forbade it—though they would likely advise against it, Gildor thought with a wry twist of his mouth—but that nobody would do it. The sea-longing stirred in every Elvish heart and grew stronger the closer one came to Elvenhome, so that nigh on every Elf who left Middle-earth, saying only that they wished to visit Westernesse, found their way at last to the shores of the Blessed Realm.

So to be re-embodied there, only to leave again! Gildor could not imagine it.

All at once, Glorfindel, Círdan, and half a dozen Elves and Men turned and began to walk towards the quay. Maybe it was Gildor’s mantle, green among the Elves of the Grey Havens who indeed wore mostly gray, or maybe it was some spark in his eyes, but when Glorfindel came close, he paused and said, “Here is an Elf who has seen the Trees, I deem. I did not know that any dwelt in Lord Círdan’s realm. Elen síla lúmenn’ omentielvo!”

Still wary, Gildor met his eyes—and how the light of the Blessed Realm shone in them! Not the light of the Trees, not anymore, but the light of the Sun and Moon as they must have shone upon him as he walked re-embodied in Elvenhome. Not since before the fall of Morgoth had Gildor seen such light, for in Middle-earth it quickly faded. And now those eyes crinkled to match the smile on Glorfindel’s face. All uneasiness fled Gildor’s mind, and he thought oh, merry! and laughed.

“Indeed it does, lord!” he said in Grey-elven, bowing, and added, “I am Gildor son of Inglor.”

“Well met, Gildor! But do not call me lord. Here and now I am Glorfindel only.”

“Glorfindel, then.”

“A few who have seen the Trees do dwell in the Grey Havens,” Círdan said, “though Gildor is not one of them. He is a messenger in the service of King Gil-galad, whom you seek.”

“Is that so?” Glorfindel said keenly. “Yes, as I have told Lord Círdan, I seek an audience with the High King of the Exiles. If you are willing, perhaps you and I may find time to discuss what I should expect. Tonight sometime. I plan to depart tomorrow.”

“I will go with you,” Gildor said, but Círdan looked at him.

“You forget my response to the King’s message. It may not be ready before tomorrow.”

Gildor suppressed a wince. “Never mind! I spoke in haste.”

“Yes,” Círdan said, then seemed thoughtful. “But it may yet prove you did not speak falsely.” And with that, he turned and led Glorfindel and the others up the path towards his house.

Over his shoulder, Glorfindel said, “Namárië!” The word stole Gildor’s very breath.

That evening, Círdan announced his plans to travel with Glorfindel, and so Gildor would go with them, his words true after all. But first there was a matter of great importance: a party.

It lasted long into the night, as Elvish parties always did, and there was good food and drink, and singing and dancing, and talk, a lot of talk. Gildor did some of it, telling Glorfindel of Gil-galad’s mood and temperament, but mostly he listened. The awe and suspicion of the Elves of the Grey Havens, the gossip of the Men of Westernesse about their time with Glorfindel: Gil-galad would want to know every scrap of it.

But even well after their words faded from his mind, Gildor would forever remember when Glorfindel lifted up his voice in song. He sang a simple, joyful tune, the words in Grey-elven but carried by the trilling notes of Sea-elven composition, and it called on them to dance and sing praise, praise! to the Sea. Elves and Men alike laughed and stamped their feet, and joined hands, and danced in circles, and after only a little while, they began to sing the song themselves, lifting their faces to the stars. Gildor danced and sang until he could not, and then he retreated to the edge of a copse and wept.

Glorfindel found him. The light of the lanterns turned his hair to flame. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” Gildor managed. “Only—your song!”

“Was it so terrible?”

“You know it was not!” And Gildor blurted the only words he could think of to describe how he felt: “But I hate the Sea!”

“Ah!” Glorfindel said. “So you have retreated, weeping, from being forced to praise what you hate?”

Gildor laughed through his tears and dared a glance at the dancers, at their joy. There was joy and more in Elvenhome, but it could never be this joy, hard-won and mortal.

“I did not mean it like that,” he said at length. “Only that it tears my heart in two.”

At once Glorfindel’s face turned grave with understanding. “I praise the Sea tonight because it brought me here, to these shores which I love. But the choice was not without pain.”

“Why have you come?”

“That I cannot say, not until I have spoken to the King.”

The words chilled Gildor’s heart. He had expected a personal tale: a sweetheart left behind in Middle-earth, perhaps. But Glorfindel’s words pointed to a greater purpose, and Gildor could not help but think of the Blue Wizards, who had arrived not twenty years ago on a ship wrought by the Powers and gone into the East.

“The King speaks of a growing Shadow,” he said.

Glorfindel said nothing.

“Will there be more of you? More Elves?”

“Gildor.”

Gildor closed his eyes and scrubbed the tears off his cheeks. When he looked up, he made an effort to smile. “I understand. I will stop prying.”

For a while they were quiet. Glorfindel turned his back against the nearest tree, his shoulder almost brushing Gildor’s. When Gildor looked at him, his face seemed strange and sad. He watched the dancers as speech faded from their mouths and they fell into an exultant, wordless melody.

“I cannot speak of why I am here,” he said, “but I can speak of why it is me and not someone else. The truth is, I begged to go.”

“Begged? Surely not.”

“Yes! Begged! I played the flute to do it. An art I picked up in the West, after my re-embodiment, but I had spent all my time learning the most beautiful songs of Middle-earth, and it was that which moved the hearts of the Powers.” Here Glorfindel trailed off, his eyes glazing, until he threw back his head and laughed. “It was not nearly the performance of Lúthien Tinúviel! But I felt somehow that she was with me. She too asked for a gift few other Elves could even imagine wanting.

“I am here, Gildor, because our kin in the West thought me sorrowed by the hurts I endured in Middle-earth and encouraged me to forget the dark years of exile, as they called them. But I could not. Because my sorrow was not of lingering hurt, but of departed joy. There is much evil in this land, yes, but…”

“But all the same it is a treasure,” Gildor said, “and treasure of a kind not to be found among all the blessings of the Blessed Realm.”

Glorfindel looked at him. “So you understand. But why should you not? All this time, and you have not sailed.”

“It is not only that I have not sailed. Some Exiles do not because they are still too proud, or else too afraid, and I do not think they would understand. But I stay for the love of Middle-earth.”

“I am glad to hear it. I cannot wait to rediscover it.”

They looked at each other for a little while, until Gildor stepped away and turned his gaze to the dancing. The sky was full dark now, and the Men often stumbled over their own feet, growing tired, but the Elves would go on for hours yet.

“I am sorry if I insulted your song,” Gildor said. “Usually I only weep at music when I am meant to!”

“It is a great compliment, actually. I will tell the Men of Westernesse to pass it on to their Elvish friends: a Sea-elven ditty has made an Exile in Middle-earth weep for the desire of Elvenhome.”

The droll note in Glorfindel’s voice betrayed what they both knew: it was not so simple as that. But it was an explanation that would appeal to the Elves who had chosen the West over Middle-earth, and Gildor imagined the story spreading far and wide, a smug but confused note echoing in Elvish voices: Yet if he weeps for Elvenhome, why does he not sail?

At that thought, Gildor laughed a little and turned back. “As you wish, but do not tell them my name! My family might hear, and I would not want them to get their hopes up.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Glorfindel said, smiling. “But why do we still speak of the West, since it makes you weep? Come and sit a little farther from the music, and let us speak of Middle-earth. Some news of it comes to us from the Men of Westernesse, but their Mannish concerns color all they say. I desire to hear it from an Elf.”

“And so you will hear it,” Gildor said.

They went farther into the copse then and spoke almost until dawn of the Grey Havens and King Gil-galad’s realm and Hollin, and even the lands east of the Misty Mountains. Glorfindel spoke of Westernesse and eventually, when Gildor urged him, a little of the Blessed Realm. Away from the sight of the Sea, Gildor’s heart did not ache so much. He knew, as he had not known in the time of Morgoth, that he was destined for Elvenhome. But not yet, not now sitting in this cool grass, listening to the humming of the trees and the shouts of merriment drifting in from between their leaves.

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