NEW MEMORIES

Upon the battle plain of Dagorlad lay many bodies: of Men and Dwarves, beasts and birds, and not the least, of Orcs and Elves. At dawn the day after the battle, a Captain under Glorfindel’s command wandered among the dead. He was charged with the task of counting those killed of the Elves. He drifted among the corpses, the stench assailing his nostrils like reeking fingers reaching up to strangle him in their noisome clutches. When he noticed a fluttery movement and saw a pale hand held against the sky, he rushed to the side of the Elf who had raised it as if it were a melancholy banner of hope.

This wounded Elf was young. He was slight of stature, and looked to be gravely wounded. The captain knelt down beside this victim of battle and stared around him at the surrounding debris. He lifted the wounded Elf’s head and the young one coughed up blood. He tried to speak but his voice was barely a rasp. “What is your name, soldier?” asked Trenericár, after giving the stricken Elf a drink of water from his skin.

“My name? I do not remember it,” said the strange Elf.

“You do not know your own name? Whence came you into this battle?” asked Trenericár.

The wounded Elf blinked. “I know not,” he said. Then he laid his head down and closed his eyes.

Trenericár got to his feet and made his way to his commanding officer’s tent to tell his lord, and Elrond’s second-in-command, of his discovery. “What is it, Trenericár?” Glorfindel asked curtly. He was sitting behind a desk that was covered with stacks of paper. He looked exasperated, his large hand clutching a fistful of tumbling hair the color of the golden Elanor flower.

“I have found a survivor among the dead on the battlefield,” stated Trenericár.

“Have you? Why should that concern me?” asked Glorfindel, clearly annoyed by the assumption that he would be interested in knowing this fact when he had so much paperwork to deliver to Lord Elrond, except that none of it was complete. In the aftermath of the heavy losses among the Elves of the Last Alliance, the Lord of Imladris had assigned certain responsibilities to Glorfindel that normally would have gone to another officer. Therefore he found himself having to deal with lists: of the dead, the wounded, of rations, weapons, and armor. A trustworthy officer needed to be in charge of determining that there were enough bandages, shovels, swords, pieces of equipment and many other things for the soldiers to remain in good battle condition. He seemed afloat in lists. He did not know how to begin. The task of taking the wounded to the hospital tent was not his responsibility. He sighed. The golden warrior was not usually this abrupt with his friends, but his mood was not good, having been sitting in this stuffy tent all day without stretching his limbs or smelling the outside air. “Who is he? Someone of importance?”

“I know not, sir. And…” Trenericár hesitated. “He knows not. He cannot remember who he is.”

“What do you mean, he doesn’t know who he is?” cried Glorfindel. He stood up abruptly, causing some of the piled-up papers to fall to the ground. Glorfindel looked at the fallen pages and felt suddenly glad to be able to leave this oppressive tent with all its hated paperwork, and attend to a task, even if it was beneath his rank. He grabbed his helm from a nearby stand and, holding it under his arm, rounded the corner of the table and faced Trenericár. “Right. Show me where he is.” Glorfindel gripped his helm and thrust it toward Trenericár in a gesture of irritation. “Why did you leave him alone? He may be someone of importance, I suppose, and if you’ve left him to die, he may suffer alone and helpless. A sad way to go.” A cloud of dark memory shaded his face briefly.

“I thought it best not to move him right away,” said Trenericár. “I do not think he is in danger of dying immediately.”

The two officers marched through the debris of the battle, winding their way around the piles of corpses until they came to the body of the fallen soldier. Glorfindel looked up at the carrion birds circling the area like bits of black soot in the dull sky.

“I thought you might find the rubble surrounding him interesting,” said Trenericár.

“Why is that?” asked Glorfindel, standing and staring down at the prone body of the young Elf. The wounded soldier’s breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in slight movements. Glorfindel noticed the gleam of a well-made, new-looking sword lying beside the fallen Elf. Beneath the sword was the severed hand and forearm of a large Orc. Upon the Orc’s gauntlet was a sign that marked the bearer as a general in Sauron’s army. Trenericár poked with his own sword at a pile of Orcs’ bodies and uncovered a large one with most of one arm missing, and a gaping throat wound.

“Ah. It looks like our unknown warrior has killed an important cog in Sauron’s wheel,” said Glorfindel, “and himself has almost died in the process. Come, let us get him out of here.”

Glorfindel knelt beside the unconscious Elf. He looked him over for injuries, noting bruises and scrapes upon the delicate face. Dried blood matted his hair at one temple, and there was a dark patch of drying blood on the right side of his armor, below his ribs. Glorfindel pulled down the collar of the soldier’s tunic and placed his fingers upon the pulse in his neck. The injured Elf’s eyes fluttered open at the touch and he stared blankly at Glorfindel.

“What is your name?” asked the commanding officer in a kind voice.

The young Elf stammered, “M-my name, my L-lord? I – I know not.” His expression turned to one of distress, his blue eyes widening, his lips pulled back in a grimace. He was aware that two people had now asked him the same question and his memory had not returned, even though he was now fully awake.

Glorfindel offered him a drink of water from his pouch, and the young Elf accepted it eagerly, raising his hand to clutch at the waterskin, and gulping the water as fast as he could. It seemed to revive him a little. His eyes cleared. “M-my sword,” he whispered, flailing with his arm to the side that was not injured.

“Your sword is here,” said Glorfindel. “At least I think it must be yours.” He lifted up the fine weapon to show the young warrior. It had intricate lettering upon the handle and Glorfindel peered at this with interest. “Your sword is of Telerin make by the carvings on the hilt,” he said. “It seems that it clove the arm of a general in Sauron’s army. You have done a brave deed with your worthy sword.”

“T-Telerin?” asked the young Elf, his expression one of curiosity, a questioning gaze breaking the blank stare.

“Yes. Or Lemberin, in their own language,” said Glorfindel.

“Lemberin. Lemberin,” said the Elf, and a glint of recognition glowed in his eyes.

“You must be Telerin if you know that word. One of Círdan’s people, perhaps,” said Glorfindel. “We can find out later. Come now. I am going to try to lift you and carry you back to my tent where I will have someone come to look after you. Tell me if anything hurts when I do this,” and the powerful warrior put his hands beneath the young Elf’s body and lifted him. Surprised by his lightness, and impressed that the injured soldier did not whimper or cry out in pain, Glorfindel carried him back to his tent, while Trenericár picked up the Telerin sword and the gauntlet from the dead Orc, shaking free the severed arm, which fell unheeded to the ground.

Glorfindel set the injured Elf carefully down on his pallet. He pulled off the soldier’s armor gingerly, and then removed his boots. He undid his jerkin, peeling the suede fabric away from the bloody patch on his side. He gently pulled the tunic up to the young Elf’s chest so that he could check the wound. It was a deep gash to his right side, but luckily it had missed his vital organs. “This needs to be properly dressed,” Glorfindel told Trenericár. “Can you go and see if you can find Lord Elrond? I want him to have a look at this Elf personally.”

Trenericár nodded and started to leave, but he stopped at the tent’s opening and asked, “Should this soldier not be moved to the hospital tent, my lord Glorfindel?”

He looked up at his captain with his innocent blue gaze and said, “No, Trenericár. I want to look after him myself.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


Elrond hastened to Glorfindel’s tent when Trenericár explained what he had found and expressed his commanding officer’s concerns. The Elf-lord of Imladris was glad to be able to get away from his own affairs, so that he would not be dwelling on his sorrow in the aftermath of Gil-galad’s tragic death. He examined the injured soldier’s wounds and applied a salve and temporary dressing to the deep gash.

“Do you recognize him?” Glorfindel asked, sitting by the strange Elf’s side while Elrond tended to him, watching the healer’s work with interest.

“No,” said Elrond. “I agree with you that it looks as if he might be Telerin, and if this sword indeed belongs to him, then that would reinforce our theory. This young soldier has sustained several blows to his head.” Elrond indicated the wound on the Elf’s temple, and a bump on the top of his head. “Any one of these may have caused his memory loss. I am sure that his memory will come back in time, once he has healed.”

“Now the wound on his side is rather worrisome. He has sustained a deep sword-cut. It needs to be bathed, and the dressing should be changed every four hours to keep it clean. Are you sure you do not want this soldier moved into the hospital tent where trained staff can look after him?”

“No,” said Glorfindel in a firm voice. “I am going to look after him myself.” He hesitated, wanting to justify his answer but not sure of his reasons himself. “He… intrigues me.”

Elrond looked at the powerful military leader with surprise. “Very well, Glorfindel,” he said. “I will have a medical attendant sent to you right away to bathe him.”

Walking back to his quarters, he reflected upon Glorfindel, this indomitable warrior who had been of great assistance to himself and Gil-galad in this battle. Indeed, since the golden-haired Elda had first come to Middle-earth with Olórin, he had been in Elrond’s service. He had been a chieftain of one of the Houses of Gondolin in the First Age. He was famous for having slain a Balrog while defending the King’s daughter Idril, her husband Tuor and their son Eärendil, Elrond’s father, in their flight from the sack of the city. He had been resurrected by Manwë after only a short stay in the Halls of Mandos, and had stayed in the Blessed Realm for a time, becoming great friends with Olórin of the Maiar, and learning some Maiarin ways and magic.

He had been sent to Middle-earth with Olórin in the Year 1000 of the Second Age, so that he could assist Gil-galad and Elrond in the war against the new Dark Shadow when the time came. Sauron was not then grown to his full power, but there was rising suspicion of him and Glorfindel went to Imladris with Olórin and began to train an army of soldiers who could do battle with the evil Maia when it was time for war. Elrond had known Glorfindel for many years, and knew that the powerful Elda possessed an innocence of a primitive kind as he was strong. He was reminiscent of one of the firstborn Elves of Cuiviénen.

While Glorfindel waited for the medical attendant to come, he sat by the wounded Elf’s side, talking to him. The young Elf remained unconscious. Glorfindel stroked his pale brow and spoke soothing words of encouragement to him. The great warrior took up a sponge and dipped it into the basin, and wrung out most of the water. He held it to the side of the unconscious Elf’s face and cleaned away the dirt with great care. He wrung it out again and pressed it lightly to the wound at the side of the blond Elf’s head, trying to remove some of the dried blood that was matted in his long tresses. Glorfindel noticed how pale this Elf’s hair was in contrast to his own locks of dark gold.

“He has the paleness of the Teleri,” thought Glorfindel as he sponged the wounded Elf’s body. Noticing the slender form and smooth skin as he bathed the unconscious soldier from head to foot, Glorfindel thought, “He is pretty. His face is almost like that of a child’s doll sculpted from the finest clay of Tirion.”

When he was clean, Glorfindel dressed the soldier in a loose-fitting shirt and leggings of his own, and hummed an old lullaby that he remembered hearing from Olórin many years before. For three days and nights afterward, Glorfindel never slept, but stayed by the side of the injured soldier until the young Elf’s wounds looked to be healing well, and he eventually regained consciousness. When his eyes fluttered open, his gaze came to rest upon Glorfindel’s concerned countenance, and he smiled.

“Are you--?” he began to ask, then broke into spasmodic coughing. Glorfindel lifted the Elf’s upper body so that he could expel the phlegm from his throat.

“Am I what?” asked Glorfindel while he gently rubbed the smaller Elf’s back, a steadying hand pressed to his chest.

“My savior hero,” said the younger Elf, his innocent blue eyes staring into Glorfindel’s own. Glorfindel gazed upon the radiance of the young soldier’s smile and it warmed his heart. For some reason, the simple words spoken by this wounded soldier meant more to him than the many accolades that had been afforded him over the long years.

He and the young Elf talked at length, spending an hour or so in each others’ company. Glorfindel told the soldier all about himself, because the younger Elf had nothing he could say about his own life. Glorfindel gave him a brief recounting of the battle of Dagorlad, and told him all about Sauron and the Rings of Power, even about his old home of Gondolin, that beautiful city fashioned after Tirion of Valinor.

The young soldier paid rapt attention to Glorfindel’s stories, watching him with wide blue eyes that followed every movement of his lips and every change in his expression. Glorfindel noticed this and his heart fluttered with happiness. “I wish that you could tell me something of yourself,” he lamented. “When you are well and fully healed, I shall take you to Lindon to see Círdan. Now that our king, Gil-galad, has been sadly slain in battle, he will not be able to identify you, if indeed, he knew you. But Círdan may know you well, if you are indeed one of the Teleri. We shall find out if the Lord of the Havens knows who you are and from what house you came, if your memory has not returned by then. For now, I would like you to have a name so that I may address you when I am speaking to you. Would you mind if I called you ‘Lemberas’?

A light of recognition flickered in the young Elf’s eyes. “Lemberas?” he repeated. “Lemberas. That sounds – that sounds – almost as if I have heard it before – like a faint echo in my mind.”

“Well, I did make it up from the word ‘Lemberin’, which could be the name of your language,” said Glorfindel. “Perhaps that is why.”

Over the next few nights, Lemberas began to have strange dreams whenever he slept. During these nightmares he became agitated and thrashed about with his arms and legs upon the pallet that Glorfindel had requested be brought into his tent for the soldier. Glorfindel would get up and rush to his side, sit beside him and try to quiet the tossing and turning Elf. Lemberas would only calm down when Glorfindel was beside him. Once, when Glorfindel was fast asleep and had not noticed Lemberas being disturbed by a nightmare, the young Elf awoke on his own and after sitting up in terror, his body drenched in sweat, he rose and crept over to Glorfindel’s pallet. He got into bed beside the big warrior and fell asleep, happily pressed against Glorfindel’s back.

After a few weeks, Glorfindel and Lemberas were thought to be lovers among the soldiers who remained behind to guard Barad-dur. Coupling among men was not a rare occurrence in the army, especially during times when women were scarce or not seen at all. However, Glorfindel and Lemberas were not involved with each other in a romantic way. They were both innocents. Lemberas clung to Glorfindel as his savior, and out of need driven by fear. His fear was exacerbated by the fact that almost everything was unknown to him. Glorfindel’s interest in Lemberas was born out of his own experience with resurrection. He saw himself mirrored in the innocence of Lemberas’ condition – an adult male who was in a state of total oblivion. In his own case it was because of rebirth, and in Lemberas’ situation it was because of memory loss. However their current friendship had come about, they remained constant companions, and Lemberas slept with Glorfindel every night, unaware that they were being talked about by their fellow soldiers.

One day when Lemberas was polishing his sword in front of Glorfindel’s tent, Glorfindel noticed how well the young Elf was looking. There was color in his face and a vigor about his movements. His demeanor was joyful, even exuberant, and he sang as he worked, a song that he had learned from the other soldiers. It was a bit ribald, and neither he nor Glorfindel knew what it meant.

“Oh, a soldier’s life is merry – Hey!
He never gets a moment’s rest
He’s busy all the long, hard day
Where he is put to every test.

But in the night when all is still
And quiet in his tent he finds
A friend with whom to practice drill
Fights and play of all new kinds.”

“Hail, Lemberas,” Glorfindel, called to him.

Lemberas broke off singing, looked up and gave his friend a wide grin. “Glorfindel! I have not seen you all morning!”

“I have been with Lord Elrond,” Glorfindel said in a quieter tone, moving closer and sitting down beside the smaller Elf. “He tells me that our contingent will be shipping out soon, and we will be moving back to Imladris.”

“Oh,” said Lemberas in a small voice, looking crestfallen.

“Don’t worry, Lemberas,” said Glorfindel, seeing his companion’s sad look. He laughed and wrapped a muscled arm around the young Elf’s shoulders. “Did I not tell you that when we were finished here, we would be going home?”

“Yes, but only you shall go home,” said Lemberas. “I know not where I belong.”

Glorfindel remained silent for a moment. He had almost said, “You belong with me,” but he stopped himself before he said it. Instead, he brightened and jostled Lemberas with a strong arm held tightly around his waist. “But I told you that I would take you to Lindon, to find out if that is from where you came.”

Lemberas looked stricken. “But what if I am not from Lindon? Or what if I am? I will not know anyone there, and if you leave me alone –“. He stopped abruptly.

Glorfindel looked at him with pity. “Lemberas, do not fret. You need not stay there. Once we find out if Lindon was indeed your home, you are free to travel or live where you please. We can have a fine time traveling together, if you like. I will show you all the beautiful places I have visited on Middle-earth. Wait until you see Imladris, Lemberas. Have I told you about it before? It sits in a valley cleft from the mountains by a river, in a riven dell. It is glorious. The Elves of Noldorin descent who came with Lord Elrond from Lindon have built there the most glorious haven that you will have ever seen.” Lemberas looked cheered by Glorfindel’s words and paid undivided attention as Glorfindel described Imladris in great detail.

Lord Elrond came to see Glorfindel on the night before the golden warrior and Lemberas were to leave the army and go off on their own to Lindon. “Are you sure it is wise for the two of you to go alone on such a mission?” asked the Elf-lord.

“Yes, but why are you concerned?” asked Glorfindel.

“Glorfindel, you are a true innocent,” said Elrond, concern showing in his eyes. “You are a worthy warrior, capable of defeating anything in your path, but you understand not the danger of traveling in such a small company, and you do not seem to fear being attacked. And Lemberas, whom you choose to take with you, is even more of an innocent than you are. He is like a lost child in the wilderness.”

“We will be fine,” said Glorfindel, his mind set, his face betraying his hurt feelings.

“Glorfindel, I am sorry,” said Elrond. “I am only concerned for your welfare and safety.”

“Lemberas is safe with me, and I can take care of myself,” said Glorfindel.

“That is not what I meant,” said Elrond. “You do not know what people say—“ He stopped abruptly, regretting instantly that he had made an inappropriate remark.

“What do they say?” asked Glorfindel with curiosity.

“They say that you and he are a couple,” said Elrond, biting his lip with regret that he chose to say anything.

“I suppose we are a couple of innocents,” said Glorfindel. “But we are both good fighters, and even if we do not know what dangers may lie before us, we do know that for now the enemy has been defeated and we should be as safe on this journey as we have been at any time in the past.”

Elrond decided to drop the subject. “Goodbye, Glorfindel,” he said. “I shall see you again, no doubt when you return.”

Glorfindel gave him a brilliant smile of reassurance before retiring into his tent. He knew that Elrond perhaps worried too much because he had just lost Gil-galad in the recent battle. And he was aware that Elrond had lost his parents and his brother, as well as his guardians who took care of him when his parents departed. With a sigh of sympathy for his friend, Glorfindel settled onto his pallet next to Lemberas, who had stripped down to a pair of light leggings, and let the young Elf circle his stomach with his slender arms, and nestle, as usual, against his back.

“Goodnight, Lemberas. Sleep well. Tomorrow we ride north,” he said.

Lemberas sighed and closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Glorfindel,” he said.