Glaerorn had grown up between the caves of the Elven King and the twilight of the wood, where a constant feeling of a not-quite-peace had been lingering on the edges of everything in the last few years. He had watched with curious eyes from many hiding places behind living rock shaped like trees and vines, when guards had returned from the borders covered in a substance that had the hair on the back of his neck rise. He had learned later that it was the blood of the big spiders that had become bold enough to try and cross the borders of the realm every once in a while. One time the guards had carried one of their own, possibly wounded or-
He had fled that time, his heart gripped by a sudden fear, until the soothing notes falling off his mother’s harp strings had enveloped him as he wrapped his short arms around her leg, his head resting on her knee.
He had wanted to know many things then, for he was but a young child and had never seen any serious wound before nor thought about the perils of this world. And why would he wonder about these things when his life was so full of music and joy? One could live in the Woodland Realm in peace, trusting in the skill of the guards and not take notice of any of the hardships of the outside world. At least if one lived the sheltered life of an elfling growing up at court. Yet there were songs about battles and lords of old, he had just never before thought much about their meaning and he could not wrap his head around the idea of time just yet. The fact that his parents had lived in a land that no longer existed save in song, was difficult to comprehend.
Glaerorn sighed. He did not like that his thoughts, instead of carrying him to pleasant memories of his childhood, brought up others that seemed to increase the tightness he felt in his chest. He took a deep breath but it did not bring the comfort he sought.
He had loved the rich scents of the wood, the different textures and sounds, the realness of it all. The air laden with fullness and vibrancy of things that lived. He had loved the constant whisper of the trees. And the sounds of the birds and the rustling leaves, the little brooks and rivulets eager to tell their tale but never rushing until they had to skip over a rock or down into a pond or lost themselves in the bigger stream of the forest river. Like the underlying smell of the fir trees, the sound of water had been a quiet undertone in many places, forming a bed for every other sound to lie upon, enriching them without obtruding. Many days he could be found sat by the water, harkening to its tune. Even Lothlorien in its dream like half sleep had felt more like home than this here.
Imladris was enveloped in the rushing and roaring of water cascading down high cliffs in such haste that it seemed impossible for Glaerorn to make out any of its music. It was not carrying any other sounds to him but rather drowning them and he could not make out if it was about to crush him or to flee from him. To his ears, he pondered, it sounded like a constant scream.
His father had screamed when -
Glaerorn moved closer to the edge of the platform he was standing on, elegant fingers wrapping around the cold metal railing, for once glad about the roaring covering any other sound he may have heard in his memory. A fine spray of mist laid itself on his skin and hair like a subtle embrace. He felt odd, as if something was missing. Maybe there should be peace and the calm joy he saw on the faces of the residents of the valley, but there was none. Not inside him, where he dared not even look lest he be swallowed by deep, bottomless water and not outside where the actual water was angrily carving its way.
With a sudden piercing pain, sadness overcame him and he wept for that time of his life he now realised would never come back. He wished he could be Gilithlin again but understood at the same time that he would never find that same joy that had been his childhood. He was Glaerorn now, his name a living memory of Glaerindis and Caladorn. And he promised himself that he would forever cherish above anything else the memories of feasts by woodfires in clearings whose ceiling broke away to reveal the sky and its innumerable stars, of tree shaped stones framing his path to his daily lessons, of quiet singing on balconies to greet the night and the morning, of laughter, friends, dancing in the falling autumn leaves, all while being enveloped by the love of his parents, and his parents music cocooning him in a world that now seemed as unreal and far away as a fairytale. Deep down he knew that even visiting these places again would never bring back the feeling he craved now, since he had become aware of what he had lost.
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Set right after Glaerorn arrived in Imladris
