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Dream a Bitter Style: 1. Frost
Note: This is a continuation of the arc started in 'Never Speak Nor Sing'. It is indeed a very dark story, with questionable judgement, immoral sex, a vile prison, a near death experience, lying liars, numerous occurrences of blood, improvisational surgery, and despicable behaviour all around. It is canonical to a point: the overall timeline, geography, and character names follow the Silmarillion. However, character action and fine details are very much AU, and therefore so is the story on the whole. Most backstory and cultural/religious elements have been invented by me and have no canon basis whatsoever.
It was a cold fall morning on the brink of winter when Ninnan the kitchen girl finally agreed to take her dress off for Oropher. In exchange, she demanded two bags of loucoums, one bag of hard candy, six fresh apples (not the sort that had been sitting around in barrels in the kitchen for months), and a jar of wine. It took Oropher only three hours to scrounge up her price. He invited Glorfindel to join him, if not to see the spectacle then at least to talk over it in minute detail afterward. The invitation turned out to be a lucky one, as Ninnan had invited her friend Mellig. Neither party trusted the other to behave as planned.
Oropher had decided that an ideal place for undressing would be down on the riverbank. The outside air was frigid, smelling of ambient frost, but at least the riverbank involved no risk of being caught by Celeiros. He assured Ninnan that she could be as naked as she pleased, for as long as she pleased, with no worries. Ninnan only scowled in return, assuring him that she would have gladly accepted the risk of undressing behind a stack of barrels and grain sacks in the corner of the kitchen, where it was always warm and never windy. The scowl stayed firmly on her face the entire three-mile walk from the city gates to the riverbank slope. She clutched her shawl around her shoulders and grumbled with every damp, barefoot step.
Beside Ninnan walked Mellig, sour-faced at the prospect of having to spend an entire day on a cold riverbank with Oropher. Her skinny silhouette swayed in contrast to Ninnan's as a sapling contrasts with a well-grown tree. They complained to each other in snarls too quiet for Oropher to hear, occasionally pausing to make a production of rubbing their cold feet.
Glorfindel came last. He was wearing half the clothes he owned, and still he shivered in the biting wind. His hands were raw from holding his cape in place. His thin shoes were soaked through from the silvery wet ground. His whole body felt frozen. In the weeks since the first frosts came, he had started to suspect that Sindarin Elves did not feel the cold even half as acutely as he did. A gust of wind that chilled him like a fear seemed to have hardly any effect on Oropher. Ninnan and Mellig, though they complained so heartily, did not shake and chatter their teeth. Whether this was because the Sindar had evolved to live in the northern climate or because they simply did not mind extreme temperatures, Glorfindel did not know. He did know, however, that if such an intense cold ever came to Valmar, there would be panic and terror in the streets as clerics proclaimed it to be a sign of the End of the World. Valmar, like the kitchens, was always warm.
It took a long walk over a cold, windy plain, followed by a short walk down a cold but less windy slope, to get to the place Oropher had in mind. There was a clearing full of fallen trees at the bottom of a steep hill, so close to water level that the leaf-covered ground squished wetly underfoot. Oropher squished his way through the centre of the clearing, sat down on a fat, mossy log, and produced a jar of wine from the sack he carried. He pulled the top out and took a long swig.
"Oi!" shouted Ninnan. "That's mine, you promised!" She swatted at his hands where they grasped the bottle.
With a silly grin, Oropher reached into the sack again and pulled out a second jar, which he handed to Ninnan. Her eyes were clearly impressed as she took it, though she said nothing to encourage him. She sat down at his side, pulled the lid, and drank heavily.
Mellig sat next to Ninnan, and Glorfindel sat at Oropher's other side. Glorfindel pulled his feet up to perch on the log as he hugged his knees to his chest and shivered. With stiff fingers and clenched teeth, he managed a sip of Oropher's wine. It warmed him, but not nearly enough. He took another sip and pulled his cape up higher around his ears. Oropher began singing a dirty song about innocent milkmaids and unfaithful soldiers, the rhythm accentuated by the sloshing of his bottle.
Both Ninnan and Oropher were giggling by the time the wine was finished. Oropher turned to grin at Glorfindel, which was no easy task given that Ninnan had used her shawl to tie him to her bosom. "You don't think..." he said casually, "that maybe you and Mellig want to go for a walk down the bank?" Ninnan giggled again as he spoke.
Glorfindel looked warily at Mellig, who gazed back at him with a hopeful smile, and said, "Um..."
Mellig had become more jovial and courageous over the course of the wine drinking. She jumped down from the log and grabbed Glorfindel's sleeve, urging him to stand. "Come on," she said. "I feel like a walk." She half led, half dragged him back up the slope to an intersecting path that turned southward. Her warm hand slid down his sleeve and tried to find his, though he pulled it away. Behind them, Oropher and Ninnan howled with laughter at an unheard joke.
"Um," he asked, "which way are we going?"
"Over here," she said. "I know the way. I've been here before." She pointed ahead, hand framed by nettle leaves.
The path was well-used and even, but Mellig still walked slowly. No matter how slow a pace Glorfindel kept, trying to stay behind her, she slowed to match him and stay exactly at his side, leaning ever closer so that their shoulders and elbows bumped as they walked. Glorfindel had shifted so close to the edge of the path that tree branches snagged and whipped his clothes, but Mellig still leaned closer. She put a hand on his back as she pointed to berries they could eat, or stumps full of sleeping bees.
Through it all, Glorfindel's mind raged to find an answer as to whether or not it would be acceptable to return her affections.
Eighty-seven years earlier, Amma had been born into the caste called Mótallië; Amárië Mótazyë was her proper name. It was not the absolute worst caste into which one could be born. Mótari were thankfully second from the bottom in the class hierarchy. It would have been worse to have been born into the Lucolië. But still a Mótar was low enough to have a plain, unremarkable life.
It was considered a crude thing by the Vanyar to work with one's hands, and this is exactly what Mótari did. They shaped stones and built houses, crafted silver or worked in smithies, wove fabric, sewed garments. Made paper. They were largely ignored by the higher members of society. They did not particularly matter. Their lives were lived behind a veil of ignorant secrecy, segregated to the point that some would boast of never having seen a Mínar or Thandyo. But despite this, Mótari were still higher than Lucindor by virtue of the very important fact that they were allowed to own land and animals, and Lucindor were not.
Objectively, Lucindor and Mótari did very similar jobs, though Lucindor were usually on the lower end of the scale. They would quarry the stones, mine the silver, harvest flax, or chop wood. Some also acted as tenant farmers on the estates of wealthier land-owners, and some became low servants in middling households. Unlike the Mótari, who had a small bit of choice when it came to what they did in their lives, the Lucindor performed whatever tasks they were given. They were almost slaves, and only kept from being slaves through the kindness of their betters who preferred the softer term Lucindo to the hard title of Mól.
Amárië Mótazyë hated Lucindor. She had no choice; they were the only ones she was allowed to hate. A person was only allowed to look down upon those lower than herself, and the only people lower than Mótari were Lucindor and criminals. Cemenduri and Mancari at least had both Mótari and Lucindor below them, so they hated each one with a little less intensity. Mínari could look down on the Cemenduri and Mancari, and the Thandyor could look down on the Mínari, and the Tarathandyor could look down on the Thandyor. At each new, higher level, the hate turned to something more like disregard, or even pity. A Tarathandyo could not be expected to waste his time hating a Lucindo or Mótar, so he simply ignored them. Besides, he had no reason to hate. He was not pushed down and ruined by the weight of the hierarchy above him. The only thing better than a Tarathandyo was the King's Family itself, and that was a very small and light burden to carry.
But Amárië's hate was also for reasons of family history. Her great-grandfather Ezgo had been a Lucindo, from a long line of Lucindor that had originally been cursed by Imin at Cuiviénen. But when he was young he went to Ingwë to beg pardon for the sins of his fathers, climbing the long road up Taniquetil on bleeding hands and knees in humility and servitude, kicked and spat upon by the Thandyor for even daring to touch their mountain. He lay before Ingwë with his head on the ground and wept for forgiveness. And Ingwë agreed to pardon him and raise his status to Mótar, but only on the condition that he convert to the new religion. Ingwë was a Valadávar, a servant of Manwë, following the new religion that he himself had started. Ezgo was a Yaranénor, standing by the old beliefs that his family had followed since awakening. But at the prospect of losing his burdensome title of Lucindo, he converted without hesitation.
When Ingwë allowed him to stand, he stood up with a new faith and a new name. Ezgo was a Yaranénon Lucindo name. His new Valadávan Mótar name was Maringor. He walked down the mountain as Maringor Mótazyo, and was spat upon a little less.
He remembered every word that Ingwë had taught him, and followed his new religion exactly. There was a Yaranénon tattoo on his shoulder blade, of a ring of stars at the crest of a wave, but he burned it with a hot ember. Valadáva did not allow tattoos, and least of all tattoos of objectionable symbols. After that he always wore a shirt, even in bed, because Valadáva did not allow scars to be shown. He married a good Valadávan girl and lived in a small Valadávan house in a Valadávan area of the city with his five Valadávan children. He went to the towers every day and prayed to Manwë, and just Manwë, as Ingwë told him. The only Valadávan task he ever failed to do was give money to the Lucindorin beggars. Now that he was above them, he allowed himself the luxury of hating them. It was a wonderful thing, to be better than someone. Because of Ingwë he was better than a whole caste of someones. It made life easier to know that he could look down on others they way so many looked down on him.
So the family lived unchangingly within the rigid rules and brittle customs of Valmar and Taniquetil. Each person knew his place, and if he forgot, he would be soon reminded. He knew what he could do, and whom he could marry. Lucindor could marry Lucindor. Mótari could marry Mótari, or possibly Cemenduri. Mínari could marry Mancari or Thandyor, and Thandyor could marry Tarathandyor or even sometimes someone from the King's Family. Mótari could not marry Mínari, which was why there had been such a scandal when Amárië's sister Antára had married the music teacher Elindyo Mínazyo. She was forced to give up her family and religion, which her great-grandfather had sacrificed so much to achieve. Elindyo was a Yaranénor. She was not sorry to take up his life, if turning her back on her own meant she could move into a large house with carpets and more than two rooms, and never have to work with her hands again. She changed her name to Aldamizdë after that. A Yaranénon name.
But worse still than a Mótar with a Mínar would be a Lucindo with anyone but a Lucindo. Such a match would in fact be forbidden by law, rather than just frowned upon by ancient custom. It left Glorfindel in an uncertain place, trying to decide whether Mellig was a forbidden Lucissë or an acceptable Mótarë, or something entirely different. And would he be able to hold her hand anyhow, if he did not intend to marry her?
The caste system of Eithel Sirion was not as concrete as its equivalent in Valmar. It existed just as fiercely, and just as surely, but its rules were secrets. The Noldor did not write laws that kept workers in their places, segregated from lords, but the rule was understood just the same. No-one called the Sindar "Lucindor", but no-one would dispute the remarkably similar status either. The Noldorin caste system was nameless, as if making no verbal distinction between classes somehow apologised for the lack of equality. At least in Valmar a serf was called a serf. In Eithel Sirion, a serf was called a citizen like everyone else, and only treated like a serf.
It was obvious to Glorfindel that, in Valmar, all Sindar would have been Lucindor. But what concerned him was that they had been ignobly relegated to this caste regardless of whether it was theirs by birthright. Mellig, like Oropher, could have very easily been born into the Cemenduri. It was impossible to tell without impolitely asking outright.
Almost as long as they had been walking, Glorfindel had been trying to steer the conversation toward family history. Mellig refused to follow his lead. She answered in one word or two, then changed the subject back to flowers and clouds with a dreamy sigh. Then she adjusted her dress. Always over her chest, always tugging and smoothing the fabric or toying with the lacing until Glorfindel had to look elsewhere. No matter how much she fussed and adjusted, the situation of her dress only grew worse, showing more and covering less. For all her worry, the lacing was starting to come undone. Glorfindel politely pretended not to notice.
The dress slipped off one shoulder as he helped her climb up a rocky ledge. She did not bother to fix it. The other shoulder dipped precariously as she took tumbling, tripping steps down a steep incline, landing firmly against Glorfindel's chest. It was a lucky thing, he thought, that she fell safely into him instead of into a tree. He wrapped his arms around her naked shoulders to keep her from shivering in the wind. Her shawl had disappeared somewhere along the path.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"Mm-hmm," she said. She nodded and let her head droop down to rest on his shoulder. "Thank you for catching me. Lucky I hit you instead of a tree, isn't it?"
"I thought so, too."
With a grand shiver, she looked up at the greying sky. "Awfully cold today, hmm?"
He held her a bit tighter. "Are you very cold?"
"Only a bit," she said. "I'm not so bad right now. Maybe we can walk together?" Twining an arm around his waist, she looked up at him with a smile.
"That won't be so easy," he said. "I think perhaps we should go find your shawl. And you can tie your dress. See, it's come open at the top."
"I don't mind," she said with a coy smirk.
He looked down at her, puzzled, and she looked back with half-closed eyes, tilting her chin upward just slightly.
Some hours later, when Glorfindel was back in Fingon's room waiting for Fingon to be finished in the bath, his mind battled back and forth over whether or not Mellig had meant for him to kiss her. It was ridiculous to kiss somebody you hardly knew, but then Sindar on the whole did fairly ridiculous things with an alarming frequency. Glorfindel had spent enough time with Oropher to know this. Also, Sindarin girls had far less shame and dignity than Vanyarin girls. He had learned this from Oropher too, who liked to tell horrifying stories.
But, he reasoned, if Mellig had wanted to kiss him then she would have done so herself rather than waiting for his lead. Instead, when he suggested they return to find Oropher and Ninnan, she laced her dress back up, fished her shawl out from under a bush, and marched stonily back to the clearing. She did not so much as look at him for the rest of the afternoon, which was a clear indication that kissing was no longer a possibility. But it was only the first time they had seen each other. He would have to ask Oropher about the proper Sindarin thing to do for next time.
Across the room, Fingon shifted his position, churning the bathwater. A little wave slopped over the edge of the tub. "I think I'm done," he said, and Glorfindel brought him his bath sheet.
In the months since arriving at Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel had learned four very important things about Fingon. The first was that he was a person who thrived on routine. Every day was immaculately planned. The evenings now followed a strict schedule. After a mostly silent and always awkward supper with Fingolfin, Fingon retreated to his room for his nightly bath, which was immediately followed by Glorfindel's bath. While Glorfindel bathed, Fingon would sit by the fire and write in his book of hours, until Glorfindel was free to comb his hair. Then they had reading and writing lessons. Fingon would drink a pot of bitter herb tea. Halfway through the night, he would wake up to relieve himself of all that tea. Except on those rare occasions when there was a guest for supper who required Fingon's attentions of an evening, the nights passed unchangingly.
"You're too quiet," Fingon said as he dried himself. "And not in your normal quiet way. You're too quiet in a thinking way. What did you do today that requires so much concentration?"
This was the second thing about Fingon. He was hazardously observant. He could recognise a lie before it was told, the mere hint or threat of a lie, and seemed to know exactly when somebody was concealing something. He then went about extracting that information, piece by agonising piece, until he was satisfied with the whole story. Glorfindel had learned by now that it was better to confess early on than suffer the trial of prodding questions.
"I was at the riverbank with Oropher. Oroferno."
"Why?" Fingon asked. "It's cold and muddy out there. You'd be better off staying indoors. What were you doing that required the secrecy of the riverbank?"
Anyone other than Fingon would have been satisfied with the riverbank location, assuming that Oropher and Glorfindel were there for the simple joy of being there.
"Oroferno bribed one of the kitchen girls to take her dress off for him," Glorfindel said quickly and quietly, letting the words slip away into the night. "I didn't see. He only asked me to come because he was scared to be with her by himself." Then he hastily added, "It was his idea."
"Ah," said Fingon. He dropped his towel, and pulled on his velveteen robe. "Well I should hope that, in the future, you can find better uses for your time than helping your little friend look at naked kitchen girls. He is a poor influence on you. Are you ever a good influence on him? Do you ever do things that are your idea?"
Glorfindel shook his head. "No. He thinks my ideas are boring."
"But boring will not get you into trouble," Fingon said with a smug smile. "Remember that."
"Am I in trouble?"
"No, not this time. But don't do it again." The last words were tacked on almost as an afterthought, a needless warning, as he left the bathing room and shut the door behind him.
Glorfindel undressed as quickly as he could manage once Fingon was gone, hating to be naked in the cold stone room with its cold stone air. He could see his breath like heatless smoke in front of his face. At the beginning of autumn, when the air had started to turn cool, Fingon had given him two sets of warm underclothes. He wore both of them nearly every day. This made undressing something of an ordeal, removing and neatly folding seven separate layers. The only compensation was that the effort of pulling off all those pieces warmed him enough to last until he was safely in the bath water.
He washed his body and his hair, slowly enough to allow Fingon time to write in his little book, but not so slowly that the bath water had time to cool too much. Then, after drying himself, he dressed again, though in only one set of underclothes under his top mantle. The rest of his clothes would stay where they were until morning. He spent every night with Fingon now. Every morning, he dressed in this dressing room.
He did not hate Fingon as much as he thought he would, or as much as he knew he should. It was surprisingly easy to grow accustomed to strange circumstances when he had no other choice. He needed somebody to look after him in Amma's absence. Fingon was the only possibility. Sometimes it shocked him, how little he had come to care when Fingon kissed him, or stroked his cheek and hair. It surprised him, how he no longer felt discomfort at sharing Fingon's bed. It had become part of the routine. Like drinking tea and pissing in the dark. He and Fingon had an understanding.
As he came through the door from the bath room, Fingon looked up at him with a brief smile. Then returned to the writing book. He had already combed his own hair, and was finishing off a mug of tea. Glorfindel sat beside him, back to the fire, knees hugged close to his chest. It was easiest to keep warm that way.
"I am nearly done," Fingon said. "Would you like to read tonight?"
Glorfindel nodded, and stretched to reach a book down from the shelf along the wall: the Valaquenta. Fingon's Valaquenta book was different from the one the clerics read aloud as he and his grandfather prayed at the towers in Valmar. Fingon's book gave almost equal status to all the Valar, with Manwë only slightly ahead of the others. It followed neither the preferences of the Vanyar nor the Noldor, who praised Varda, if anyone. But still the story was mostly the same, and it was the book that Glorfindel liked best. Every night he practiced reading to Fingon.
He read, "There was Eru, the One, who in Arda is called Ilúvatar..."
Fingon continued to write as Glorfindel read. He wrote more slowly than usual, pausing to think for several moments at a time as lines of concentration creased his forehead. The tip of his quill tapped against his lip. He looked up from his pages and watched Glorfindel with a dark, even stare.
Faltering in his reading, Glorfindel looked back.
"Please continue," Fingon said quietly. "I'm only thinking. Don't mind me."
Glorfindel continued reading, a little more slowly than before. "But now Ilúvatar sat and hearkened, and for a great while it seemed good to him..."
Fingon wrote another few words, deliberate in their crude slowness. The nib of his quill squeaked loudly across the page.
"...came into the heart of... Melkor to..."
A hard scratch of the quill caused Glorfindel to look up. "What are you writing?"
Fingon stared back at him with unapologetic eyes. "Would you like to read it?" He held out the little book, and Glorfindel took it. "Start at the top of this page."
"Il..." Glorfindel read. "Il... ry... þ nt mvoin...? a y'tn... Mm'lv LFnynn. N pln mlTr... r n lvn. Istn... rcUn v'rna... o RSS..." He frowned at the book, and at Fingon. "What is this?"
"Can you read it?"
Glorfindel studied the page again. "No. None of it. I mean I can read the letters, but they don't make real words."
"Good," Fingon said, and he took the book back with a smile. "It's written in a sort of code, which I hope should prevent any casual readers from understanding my hour-books."
Fingon grinned at him, a dangerous grin. "Have you never wanted to be secretive?"
The tone in Fingon's voice, the cold edge to his words, made Glorfindel shudder inwardly. He quickly reopened the Valaquenta book, staring down at its safe title page. 'VALAQUENTA,' it said, in perfect black and gold cadels. Below the title was a gold and silver star, lined in black. At the bottom of the page, something that he had never fully noticed before, were the words, "aN' n-a 7, ML HL," then below that, "FANFi." They were written in the place where, in all other books, the scribe's name would be.
A piece of the book's safety slipped away as a sudden recognition came to him. He ran a finger over the letters.
Fingon shifted forward. "I'll take that back now," he said, quietly but with a hidden menace.
Glorfindel held the book's golden edges firmly. "FANFi. That seems almost like..."
"Give me the book, Laurefindil."
"You wrote this," Glorfindel continued.
Fingon clasped his hands over Glorfindel's, prising apart his grip and pulling the book away. "That is absurd," he said. He clapped the cover shut and slid the book back onto the shelf where it belonged.
"It's your code where the scribe's name should be," said Glorfindel.
"Perhaps it's a mark of possession."
Glorfindel frowned. "It's your name. FANFi. That must be Findekáno Aresto Nolofinwion. Isn't it?" In his time at Eithel Sirion, Glorfindel had learned to be observant and prying, too. "Isn't it?"
Fingon was perched on the balls of his feet. He rocked himself slowly back and forth, hands pressed together at the level of his mouth, fingertips drumming against fingertips. It might have been a nervous pose, or thoughtful. This was the third thing about Fingon. There was no way to guess what he thought or felt. He had a favourite habit of keeping his outward appearance at odds with his inner emotions, appearing indifferent while his heart seethed. He once told Glorfindel that it was impossible to best an enemy who could infuriate or frighten, because the sight of emotional weakness gave him power. But an enemy whose jeers fell disregarded would be wrong-footed when his strategy failed. Glorfindel believed this.
"You really are very clever," he murmured. He pressed his fingertips over his mouth and exhaled with a hiss.
"You did write it, then," Glorfindel said. Fingon nodded, and Glorfindel stared with hardening eyes. He began to have a thought. It was strange, he said to himself, for a person like Fingon to have written his own copy of the Valaquenta. It was troublesome for a person like Fingon, who made a show of flouting the laws of Valinor, to perform this task. But most of all it was insulting and angering that a person like Fingon would think himself fit to do such a thing.
"Why Manwë?" Glorfindel asked.
Fingon's eyebrows twitched in confusion. "...Sorry, what?"
"Why Manwë?" Glorfindel repeated. "Your version of the story- why does it favour Manwë?"
"Is there a good reason why I should not? He is the highest Lord of Arda." With a small cough, Fingon turned to the fire. "You tell me so yourself often enough. Daily. Twice daily."
Glorfindel scowled, feeling the burn of anger slowly rise. "Other Noldor pray to Varda, if they pray at all. Every one I met."
"Other Noldor do many curious things," Fingon said with a shrug. "I have personally seen them write sonnets to carved wooden ducks, fill their shoes with vinegar, try to lighten their hair with dubious potions... jump off of ice floes into freezing water... I am not that sort of Noldo, you may have realised."
The flippancy in Fingon's voice only fed Glorfindel's anger. Fingon cared for no-one as much as himself, nor did he think so highly of anything else as he did his own cleverness. It was arrogance, not faith, that steered his pen, and it made Glorfindel sick to think of that blasphemy.
"What right have you?" Glorfindel asked, quietly poisonous.
"What right have I what?" said Fingon.
"What right have you to retell your own versions of the stories of the Valar? How can you do that? Outside of true faith, taking the name of Manwë and..."
"Arrogating your personal Vala?" Fingon finished. "I'm sorry, I hadn't realised he belonged to only one way of thinking."
"You can't do that!" shouted Glorfindel. "You can't rewrite the Valaquenta! It's sinful and... and unlawful!"
Fingon sighed and leaned back on his hands. "Laurefindil, there are hundreds of versions of the Valaquenta, all written by equally devoted scribes, all bent, intentionally or not, by their personal beliefs..."
"But how can you think you have the right to-"
"How can I think?" Fingon interrupted. "So your grievance is with me in connection to Manwë, not necessarily my interpretation. Had I written a book on warfare, or had some unknown written this book, your outrage would hardly be the same, would it?"
Fingon had a way of looking at him that made Glorfindel feel like a small child, stupid and vulnerable and alone. "Um," he said, and cringed down into the firelight, seeming to shrink in his own eyes. "I didn't... mean..."
"Then what did you mean?"
Glorfindel concentrated on staring at his hands, and gave no answer.
"I don't appreciate you insinuating such things," Fingon said sharply. "Nor do I appreciate you shouting at me. Don't think to do it again."
"I won't," murmured Glorfindel.
With a single, silent nod, Fingon stood. He crossed the room in a few long steps, dropping his bath robe in the middle of the floor before he climbed naked behind the bed curtains. Glorfindel remained seated by the fire, dutifully waiting for the call that would surely come once Fingon's wrath had abated.
"Are you coming to bed?"
Unseen, Glorfindel crossed the room, picking up Fingon's robe and draping it and his own across the back of a chair. He climbed into bed in his underclothes and thought to himself that this was the fourth thing about Fingon: he hated to be alone.
Glorfindel's Valaquenta readings are quoted directly from The Silmarillion
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