Playlist Navigation Bar
A Further Shadow Despite the Darkness: 2. Predestined
The tiring room buzzed with the twin voices of accomplishment and speculation after the show. Many went out of their way to pat each other on the back over a job well done, while the others traded theories on why exactly the guest of honour had disappeared not even halfway through. As Fingon had interest in neither being told once again how marvellous he had been nor answering questions about his brother's poor behaviour, he fully intended to leave for the peace of his bedroom as quickly as possible. Which, he found, was not very quickly at all. Apart from the crush of bodies stepping into his way and making movement impossible, he would not leave without Glorfindel. And Glorfindel was nowhere to be seen. He could have been by the stage still, or behind a dressing curtain, or out the side receiving praises. Fingon, stuck in the middle of the swell of confused players, costumers, and stagehands, could get to none of these places. He was sorry to have left his Finwë Stick backstage.
It took a good amount of nudging and asking, followed by shoving and shouting, to search the area. Glorfindel could be found in none of the places. Grudgingly, he left and headed for the tower. There was little time left in which to change his clothes and wash the paint from his face before he would be expected to formally greet Turgon at the excessive reception his father had planned. He took the stairs to the fifth floor in a double stride and threw open the bedroom door.
Glorfindel lay on the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, passively staring up at the canopy. Fingon stopped abruptly where he stood.
"Oh; you're in here. I was looking for you."
"I came to get away from the crowds," Glorfindel answered. He spoke to the ceiling and did not move. "The noise is terrible."
"Yes, well, expect more. The banquet starts directly and we need to go back down for that."
Fingon watched him a moment, but Glorfindel gave no indication of leaving the bed. "You should change out of your Indis costume."
"I don't want to go to the banquet."
"Neither do I," said Fingon, "but duty stands above pleasure. Go change your clothes."
Reluctantly and with a pained sigh, Glorfindel sat upright on the bed. He remained there a moment, paused sullenly and staring at the floor. But before Fingon had a chance to speak again, they were interrupted from behind by the deliberate clearing of a throat.
"Ah. Here you are; I've been looking all over."
Fingon allowed himself a momentary scowl and a curse word under his breath before turning around to face his brother. "Turno."
"What are you doing up here?" Turgon asked. "Atar is worrying over you."
"I was delayed at the stage site. Unable to find my friend Lauron, here." He gestured to Glorfindel on the bed
A hardened, grey cast came over Turgon's face as he registered the scene before him. "I was unaware that the Royal House of Finwë now permitted Rokothin courtesans. I thought that was a strictly Vanyarin vice?"
Clenching his jaw, Fingon forced a smile. "You're very clever. Only a truly great mind could consistently come to such ludicrous conclusions. But if you recall, our Lauron was in the play. You may have been able to recognise him more easily, had you not walked out at the beginning of act two. He played in the role of Indis. And so he is wearing his Indis costume still."
"He is in your bed."
"On my bed, Turno. He is sitting on my bed." He gave Turgon his most innocent look, which earned only a disgusted sneer in return. "For the moment," he added.
"You're dismissed," Turgon said to Glorfindel, his voice curt and clipped. "I would speak to my brother in private."
Without looking up at either of them, Glorfindel stood and crossed the room. He paused only briefly at the door, whispering words in a voice that only Fingon could hear; "What's Rokothin?"
"Later," said Fingon. And he ushered Glorfindel quickly out into the corridor, shutting the door as he did. Then he and Turgon were left alone.
Turgon, he saw, was making a point of looking about the bedroom with a disapproving frown. "Is this honestly how you live?"
"Rather sparse, isn't it?"
Fingon shrugged. There was no sense in arguing. Turgon never had never agreed with his preferences on matters of lifestyle, and never would. He turned his back on his brother and went to the bathing room, where a bowl of water, now tepid, waited on the dressing table.
With the sigh of the self-styled martyr, Turgon followed. "I need to talk to you, Findekáno. And I want you to listen to me. I'm worried."
"Really?" Fingon asked. He splashed water over his face, and reached for the dish of soap. The stage paint would require some work to remove. "About what?"
"Your moral failings."
"Oh. Of course. Do go on."
"This is not a joke," Turgon said. He had taken on a most serious expression, and Fingon, observing him through the mirror, found it difficult not to laugh. "That play was a disgrace and you know it as well as I."
"Turno, if you're upset by the possibility of me being involved with Lauron..."
"That's not what worries me."
"What, then, that he was dressed as a woman in the play tonight?"
Turgon's scowl took on an uglier shape, and he crossed his arms across his chest as if to build a barrier between himself and Fingon's corrupting influence. "The Predestined Love of Finwë and Indis," he spat. "All that speech about Arda Marred until the end of time, and the light of truth. I am not as ignorant as you think I am, and I know exactly what you're doing."
"And that is?"
"Hiding heretical propaganda behind obscenity disguised as an historical play," said Turgon. "You might as well have called the play The Predestined Blasphemy of Findekáno and Maitimo, and How They Purport to Have Done The Right Thing at Alqualondë. I don't suppose you thought anybody save the most naïve would think your play was only about Finwë and Indis. Anyone with the least bit of sense would be able to see that the historical premise was only a means by which you could safely carry out indecent acts with that Vanyarin boy and stage a mock wedding. But you were also sure they'd be too dazzled by the scandal to see the true message hidden underneath. And I thought that predestiny nonsense died with Fëanáro."
Fingon wiped his face with a towel and turned to face his brother fully. So Turgon had been paying sharp attention, after all. "Predestination was never Fëanáro's idea."
"Then it was Maitimo, but it doesn't matter who-"
"No," Fingon said, cutting Turgon's words short. "It was neither Fëanáro nor Maitimo, nor anyone else, but I. I was the one who introduced them to the ideas that later became our philosophy. So please, do not let bitterness toward our cousins interfere with your feelings. I was the one who started it, not they."
It was somehow satisfying to see the conflict pass over Turgon's features as he struggled to reconcile his previous hatred with this new admission, but Fingon fought down a smirk and kept his own features safely blank. "I can explain it to you, if you like," he continued, "though you will have to set your prejudices aside. Will you listen to me? When I am finished, if you still take exception, we can discuss it. But for now, will you listen?"
"I suppose I should," Turgon answered quietly.
"Then have a seat."
Turgon took the chair beside the dressing table, folding his hands tightly in his lap as he did. He was clearly nervous, which meant things were progressing in a way he had not anticipated. It would make Fingon's argument that much easier. He began softly.
"I've never spoken to you about this, because when the key events took place, you were only a child. I'm sorry I didn't, because I'm certain that, had I made an effort to include you then, you would not be so firmly set against me now." He paused to give Turgon an opportunity to counter, but nothing came.
"Do you remember when I went away to Tol Eressëa? You were what, thirty or so? I was gone for six years. Do you remember when I returned? Did you notice any difference?"
"I remember the day," said Turgon. "Ammë made a great fuss over you, and everything was Findekáno this and Findekáno that. I remember that before you left, you were always trying to get me to fight you or do stupid things like jump from the balcony or eat burnt scraps. When you returned, you seemed so much older, and hardly spoke to me any more. You spent all your time with Fëanáro's sons. And you gave me all your clothes, which Ammë made me wear even though they didn't fit very well." This last memory coaxed a hint of a smile to his lips. "All of your coloured clothes. You only wore black after that."
Fingon grinned. "I forgot about the clothes."
"Atar was furious. I remember him yelling about how I shouldn't wear your old things like a commoner. He accused Ammë of trying to turn me into you."
"Well, who can blame her, if she had a choice between one of you or two of me..."
"This is why I hate you," said Turgon, though his smile had grown to be wide and bright.
"Anyhow. I went to Tol Eressëa as a stupid, spoiled prince. I forced Ta to let me go there, just because I wanted to live by the sea. I was supposed to live by Taror Arafinwë's family and learn manners or something, but what I learned instead, from the common people, was far more influential."
"And that is?"
"An entirely new way of viewing the world," Fingon said. "Think of it. The Noldor and Vanyar, for their entire history in Aman, have been led by the Valar. Everything of theirs, from culture to law, has been subject to Valarin interference. They live where the Valar tell them to live, act as the Valar tell them to act, and know what the Valar wish them to know. And some say this is fine, because the Valar know best, but what if that isn't true? And there you have the Telerin philosophy.
"The Teleri question the Valar. They weigh advice rather than blindly obey. Tol Eressëa itself stands as a symbol of Telerin independent thought: it was meant to reach the mainland, but they judged otherwise and requested to have it left separate. And outside of that tight sphere of Valarin influence, the Teleri of Tol Eressëa especially can judge the world more objectively. I came across numerous groups, all with their own particular ideologies. One drew my attention more than the others. This group held more radical ideas, but everything they said made so much sense to me. Their basic beliefs had been in place since before the departure from Cuiviénen, and have only been strengthened over the years as the true nature of Arda and the Valar becomes apparent."
"But how is that possible?" interrupted Turgon. "At Cuiviénen, how could they possibly have any ideas about the Valar?"
"Those were added later. At first, they knew only that the world is inherently an evil place, created by evil forces. It was considered a ridiculous notion back then, but is now widely accepted as the truth."
"No, the current truth is that the world was changed by evil, not created."
"Essentially the same," said Fingon. "If Melkor changed the world, he changed it to suit his desires, and it is now a thing that he created through his destruction. In either scenario, we live in a world that is of an evil design. Where this Telerin belief differs most from convention, though, is in the idea that the Valar have become part of this evil. Everything that exists in Arda Marred is itself marred. Every person is born with a corrupted spirit. It is only though personal sacrifice and true dedication to goodness that one can be released from the cycle of the world. Otherwise, even in the event of death, you are reborn to another life of sin. Not even the Valar are exempt. They too must strive against evil, if they wish to be freed at the Ending of the World. In the Telerin tradition, Ulmo is the one Vala who can be trusted and revered for his goodness, because he is far removed from the influence of the rest."
Raising his eyebrows, Turgon blinked. "Ulmo?"
"They think so. Personally, I believe the one to be trusted is Manwë, as he alone knows Eru's mind and will. The others cannot be. They jealously keep their secrets and wish only to control the Eldar. This is what I thought for myself after leaving Tol Eressëa. I was surprised to learn that the Noldorin adherents to this belief are of the same mind." He nodded at Turgon's frown of confusion. "Yes, there are Noldorin believers, though I never met any until after I returned from Tol Eressëa already converted. They call themselves Manairi. So I have considered myself a Manairon for all these years. Not a very good one, but... this is how Predestination appeared."
"From your failure as a Manairon."
"In a way," said Fingon. "Not mine, specifically, but all of ours: Maitimo, Macalaurë, Curufinwë... we all shattered one of the most important pillars of our faith at Alqualondë, which is to treat all life with great respect. They were in this with me, yes. They always called me their Prophet; I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I told them what to do and they were thick enough to listen. But after that battle, once it was all over and we realised what we had done, Macalaurë was out of his mind with grief and the others were near to it. I remember Russa screaming at me about how we had all destroyed ourselves. So to calm them, I did the first thing that came to mind and started talking about what we decided to call Predestination. I told them that the atrocities could be overlooked at judgement because we were acting on a greater cause. We had been predestined by Eru through the blessing of Manwë to be the ones who would rid the world of evil and thereby bring about the Ambar-metta, when all would be released from the torture of physical life and ascend into the heavens to be one with the music of creation. Until that point, when our task was complete, we were free to act by any means necessary to achieve the goal."
"And... they agreed with this?" Turgon asked. The incredulity in his voice mirrored his shocked expression.
"Of course they did. I was their glorious Prophet, wasn't I?"
"And they never questioned you? Never questioned their own actions?" He paused only long enough to rub his eyes in frustration. "Oh, you're right... they always listened to you. No matter what nonsense you said. In that case, how could you talk them into something so outrageous? That you yourself didn't even believe?"
Fingon smiled faintly. "I didn't believe it then. But I do now."
"What? Why?" Agitated, Turgon stood and began to pace. "You just told me you invented it to assuage Maitimo's guilt after what you did in Alqualondë! How can you possibly believe something you made up out of nowhere like that?"
"All beliefs are made up by somebody, Turno."
"But yours is clearly ridiculous! You made it up to absolve yourself of the responsibility of your past and future misdeeds, and you pass it off as some Prophet nonsense! This is exactly the heresy I was talking about!"
"I can prove its truth," said Fingon.
"How? How can you possibly prove something like that?"
"Don't you think," he began slowly, "that had we not been somehow blessed, Manwë would have forsaken us at the cliff face? Maitimo could have been left to die a long and tortured death, left there to pay for what he had done. I was certain that's what would happen. I prayed to Manwë to let me kill him and end his suffering, and Manwë could have just as easily broken my arrows or sent them crooked to miss their target. But instead, one of His own eagles saved Maitimo's life. That was when I knew I was right. We are Predestined. We can do no wrong, because our role in life is to fulfil a greater good."
Turgon sneered. "And you think that idea of blamelessness is safe in the minds of people like Tyelcormo and Carnistir."
"No, you misunderstand. This is not an excuse to indulge in evil deeds. One must still try to always abide by the rules of the Manairi. All I am saying is that in the event that something seemingly evil must be done in the course of pursuing the greater good, it is allowable for those who are Predestined to do it. Think of this, Turno. You are the King of Vinyamar. You can do anything you wish. But you choose to do what is best for the people. Not always what is best for all people, but best for most. Just because you know you can by law order your subjects to wear only red or eat no meat doesn't mean that you will, but, should it ever be necessary for everyone in Vinyamar to wear red, you know you have the authority to order this. Just as I could take up my sword and kill you right now and still be innocent in the judgement of Manwë. But as your death would serve no purpose, I shan't."
"Flawed logic," said Turgon. "And heresy all the same to think that Manwë would condone this behaviour."
Sighing, Fingon rubbed his hands over his eyes and forehead. "How can you consider anything to be heresy these days, when everyone has rejected the laws of the West? A great part of our reason for leaving was to be free of Valarin meddling, if you recall."
"I have rejected nothing."
"Well," said Fingon. "Good for you. You have your beliefs, and I have mine. Must we argue about this? Can't we just forget it, go have supper, and continue hating each other on a non-theological level? Like good brothers do?"
Turgon looked away in time to nearly hide an unwanted smile, but not entirely; Fingon could see it flicker.
"Ta is waiting?"
"On the balcony off his private stairwell," Turgon answered.
"Lead the way. If we are lucky, he will see you first and not notice that I haven't had time to change out of my Finwë costume until it's too late."
"You don't want to take another few moments to change your clothing?"
Fingon laughed. "In the inevitable stuffy heat of that banquet hall, I'd choose thin stage purple over a heavy court outfit in an instant. Now you've given me a very convenient excuse to do so. Go."
Glorfindel leaned against the locked door, fitted the key into the keyhole, and paused. The drug was beginning to take effect. Already, it crept through his veins like spidery legs, making the night seem a little brighter and the stones a little warmer. It had a comforting, soothing feel, better than milk and nutmeg. His mind glowed under its influence.
The little silver bottle, hastily stuffed up his sleeve as he heard Fingon approach, sat heavy and hot against his skin. With a shake of his arm, it fell down into his waiting hand. He opened the top, held it up to the torchlight, and peered inside. It was over half gone. Only a few drops each time he took it from Fingon's bedside drawer, but those drops were growing more frequent. He had used it twice in the past six days alone. Sooner or later, Fingon would notice how much was missing. But he pushed that thought away, beneath the cloak of serenity, and turned the key.
This key to the secondary stairway was one of the more useful things Fingon had given him in the past year. Unlike the main stairway, which wound as a wide spiral up the south side of the tower, the secret, locked stairway had been built for Fingolfin's personal use and connected the fifth floor corridor with a private room between the salon and dining hall. It zigzagged down from landing to landing on the north side, with a small sitting room and balcony on one of those landings somewhere in the vicinity of the third floor. According to Fingolfin, Glorfindel was not allowed to use it. This never stopped him. Fingon had given him the a key, and he abused the privilege at every opportunity.
He locked the door again behind him before starting down the stairs with one hand brushing the wall for balance. The drug made his head light and his legs clumsy. On the first landing, he stumbled. On the third, he tripped and scraped the side of his thumb on a rough stone. Then he kept both hands and one shoulder pressed against the wall, sliding carefully downward, until he came to the larger landing with its sitting room and balcony. A single figure stood silhouetted in the balcony doorway.
Fingolfin turned his head. "Laurefindil," he said softly. "What a surprise."
"Oh!" said Glorfindel, and the word rang loudly between his ears. "I... oh. I'll go... I'll go back up." He looked back up at the stairs behind him, which seemed suddenly to be many more going up than there had been coming down.
"No no, I'm not angry at you for using this stairway. Though I've told you before..." He cleared his throat. "Come here."
Fingolfin held out his hand to beckon, and Glorfindel came.
"Are my sons on their way down?"
Glorfindel nodded. "I think so. They were discussing... or about to. In private. Without me."
"Then I fear we will be waiting a very long time," said Fingolfin. "Those two could argue the colour of the grass for hours."
With a shake of the head, Fingolfin returned to the balcony. The jewels on his silver chain collar glittered in the moonlight. Like a true king. In that instant, Glorfindel could only watch him, transfixed. He was decorated with stars.
"Do you plan to stand in there, or won't you come out to the balcony?"
"Oh... yes... you're right." Keeping his eyes on Fingolfin's glittering back, Glorfindel shuffled forward.
"It is a lovely night. No clouds."
"And you are still in your play costume."
Glorfindel looked down at himself. "Yes. I think... Findekáno wanted me to change. But I didn't."
"I can see that," Fingolfin said. He held Glorfindel in a careful gaze, bright eyes flickering between face and clothing, and made a hissing sound in his teeth. "You do make a good stage girl. Though you look little like my mother."
"Don't apologise. I would be more disturbed if you did look like her."
"Did you like the play, Laurefindil?"
"No," Glorfindel answered immediately. "I mean... No, I do mean no." There was no sense, as far as he could see, in pretending otherwise.
"I am not a girl. I don't like being a girl."
"Then why did you not change your clothes immediately?" Fingolfin asked.
Glorfindel held up his arms, examining them in the pale light of the stars. He glanced at his feet. Everything was as it had been before. He was no different. "Wearing a frock won't make me into a girl. It hasn't yet. You have to walk to the Western edge of the world to do that and make a prayer at the black ocean. Unless you have done something to anger the Valar and they decide to change your body... But I think this only happens in stories."
"I see," said Fingolfin. "Is this a common Vanyarin belief? I heard it once before, this tale of the black ocean journey, but thought the man must have been mad. He certainly looked it. This was years ago, one of the Rokothi at Ingwë's-"
"Rokothin!" Glorfindel hissed. "That is what Turukáno called me! What does it mean?"
"Rokothi? I believe it was originally a derogatory term, and they call themselves something else, but Rokothi became the common word used to describe Vanyarin men who dressed and acted as women. Some of them say that they are women wrongly born into the bodies of men, while others claim to be a third gender entirely, neither male nor female. Many of them float about in the court of Oiolossë and have high-born... ah... patrons."
"No, that's impossible." Shaking his head, Glorfindel stepped back. "It's illegal. They'd be killed. I know this."
"They exist outside the law," said Fingolfin. "Under protection of the King. Because they insist that they are women born into the wrong bodies, they are treated as women. They are not truly men; therefore, they are not subject to men's laws."
Glorfindel took another step back, stumbling as he did. His legs felt suddenly weaker and his head even lighter, buzzing with a new kind of energy that he suspected had nothing to do with the drug. Fingolfin's words had an even stronger effect. "You mean... all I have to do... to not be killed... is wear a dress and pretend I think I'm a girl?!"
Fingolfin frowned. "Who is going to kill you, Laurefindil?"
"Judges. In Valmar. I mean, when I go back there, they will arrest me and kill me for being sinful here. I told Amma I'd go back one day and I don't want to die when I do. If they find out, they will kill me."
"But if I say I was this Rokothin while I was here..."
"Then you will avoid any future execution. I understand."
"What must I do?"
"To become Rokothin," Glorfindel said. He came closer again, until he stood nearly pressed against Fingolfin's arm. The possibility of life made him dizzy. How simple an answer it was: merely pretending to be a woman. "What must I do? I have never seen them. How do they act? How do they dress?"
"They dress in women's clothing. Of those I have seen, the wealthier ones could sometimes be rather outlandish. But the poorer sorts might be dressed as you are now. They line their eyes and paint their lips as women do, as you have done for the play. And they act in the manner of other unmarried ladies of the court. As to what you must do... That, I do not know. I suppose you need only say you are a Rokothë to be one. And then..." His words hitched for a brief pause. "And then request the protection of the King."
Glorfindel looked up to meet Fingolfin's brilliant eyes. They were fixed on him, gleaming with a strange intensity even in the dark of night. "You are the King here."
"I am," said Fingolfin. His voice was hardly more than a whisper on shallow breath. "That is very convenient. Would you like the protection of the King, my pretty Laurefindil?"
Slowly, he reached out to run the back of a finger along Glorfindel's cheek with a ghost of a touch. "Then you will have it always."
It felt like drawn-out minutes, but must have been only a moment or two: Glorfindel found himself frozen in Fingolfin's keen gaze. The King's eyes shone so brightly, like shards of ice in the winter sun. He had the eyes of a Vala. Glorfindel shuddered at the sight. Some exquisite power hid there, and fierce secrets. It was terrifying to look too long, and impossible not to.
Fingolfin broke away first. "And here are my sons," he said loudly. "Good. Our guests are waiting in the banquet hall."
Glorfindel turned, and saw indeed that Fingon and Turgon had come down the stairs. He had not heard them at all.
"I am sorry, Atar," said Turgon. "We didn't mean to keep you waiting."
"It is no worry at all. Laurefindil and I had a grand chat about the play. Didn't we?"
Weakly, Glorfindel nodded. He looked back to Fingolfin, back to his bright eyes, but the King had turned his splendour toward his sons only.
"Follow me, Turukáno," Fingolfin said; "I will show you the way. This stairway ends directly beside the hall."
Turgon followed down the stairs. Glorfindel watched them go, and, as he waited for Fingon to pass, noticed for the first time that one more figure had joined the procession. Close beside Fingon was a young woman with golden hair, dressed in pink. His heart gave a sudden jolt. She was the one he had seen at the play, in those few stolen seconds he had spent squinting into the darkness of the audience. Whatever imagined beauty he had bestowed upon her then became a crude understatement in the face of the truth that now stood before him. Everything about her, from her demurely downcast eyes to the tiny slippers peeking out from beneath her skirt, was perfect. She crossed the landing as gracefully as the wind.
"You did not change your clothes."
Glorfindel started at the sound of Fingon's voice, suddenly at his side. He looked to Fingon, but quickly back at the girl in pink. She had already halfway disappeared down the stairway.
"And that is my niece," Fingon said, "so you would do well to dismiss whatever thoughts may be running through your head."
"She is beautiful," Glorfindel murmured. "Like the light from Varda's own hands. I think she is a star-spirit."
A long moment passed, and Fingon only stared at him in a strange way, harsh and scrutinising. "What's wrong with you?" he finally asked.
"What are you doing here?"
"I am standing by you."
"Why? What are you waiting for?"
"I..." He was there for some reason. Somewhere, far back in his mind, he knew he once had a purpose. He had something to do. "I can't remember. Where are we going?"
Fingon scowled. "I am going to the banquet-"
"The banquet! Yes. With your father. He was just here. I remember now."
"You are going to your room, to lie down. You are in no state to do anything else. Go back upstairs, go to your room, and stay there. I have no time for this nonsense tonight."
He grabbed Glorfindel by the wrist, jerking him toward the stairway that led back up. But the pull loosened Glorfindel's grip on the little silver vial that still rested in his hand, letting it slip through his fingers and drop to the floor, where it rolled over the stones and came to rest directly in Fingon's path. Fingon bent to retrieve it. He did not immediately stand again, but curled his fist around the vial, as if to crush it. When he did stand, he kept his eyes on his hard fist and spoke in a cold tone.
"And here I was thinking you'd merely been given some farm-brew drink by your Sindarin friend after the show. How much did you take?"
Glorfindel, cringing at the sound, could only whisper his answer. "Just two drops."
"One drop is enough to be diluted in water to mix two doses. More than that affects the mind adversely. This is a potent medicine and is not to be used carelessly!"
"No," Fingon interrupted, "I'm sorry. For ever introducing you to this poison in the first place, and for not leaving it in the keeping of Marderya, where it should be. Now I would ask you how many times you've taken this and when, but judging from the weight of the bottle, I don't think I want to know. Just go to bed, Laurefindil. We'll discuss this in the morning. Good night."
"Finno, I'm sorry," Glorfindel said again, but Fingon had already reached the stairs to follow after his father and brother.
Alone, Glorfindel lowered himself to the floor. He sat hugging his knees up to his chest. His head hurt suddenly, and his eyes, and both felt worse for the knowledge that Fingon was angry. Morning and discussion would come too soon.
But then, morning also brought the possibility of seeing the girl in pink once more. There by the stairs, even if only briefly, something extraordinary had happened. An aspect of fate had fallen into place. At a single sight, Glorfindel's path had shifted toward a new goal. If he concentrated on this, he could almost entirely forget about Fingon's inevitable wrath. He needed to seek out the girl in pink. He had found his future.
Playlist Navigation Bar