Left to Chance

Other notes: In this story, I use a certain idea of Gildor’s heritage that mayo beo be found in a few other Tolkien fan fics (notably, stories by Finch and Soledad). In my reckoning of the Tolkien universe, Gildor is the grandson of Finrod Felagund, and thus of the line of Finarfin. Technically, this doesn’t wholly break canon, but simply stretches it a bit.

*~*oOo*~*

Third Age 2540, on the path between Imladris and Lothlorien


The pass was behind them, two days now, the valley retreat below dwindling with every slow step onwards, becoming no more than the tattered afterimage of a quick glance, a thing that may be real or dream. It was always this way for Celeborn. In Imladris, Elrond had captured a fleeting moment that no longer existed, or perhaps never existed in this marred world. It was an emblem of the best they could be, and yet had never quite attained. There within the Noldo’s fair valley, the separate Eldar kindred lived side by side, harmonious within their little land, and welcoming of all the passing free peoples of Middle Earth.

And yet, even such a place was not immune from loss and despair. As he walked his horse at a discreet pace behind the front line of guards and scouts, Celeborn allowed his mind to linger on the changes he had seen in Imladris upon this visit, his first since the passing of his daughter into the West. There had been a new quietness upon the valley, a stillness born of loss and grim determination. Celeborn knew that atmosphere well, having experienced it time and again in the war-ravaged climes of Beleriand in ages past, and his spirit quaked at finding the same in a place once so full of light and carefree happiness. There was little laughter in the Last Homely House now, and Celeborn wondered at the silent tenacity and reserve that had kept Elrond from retreating from public life. Celeborn had been riven by his daughter’s ordeal, and only long years in silence within the heart of Lothlorien had prevented a kind of madness from overtaking him, driving him to seek vengeance. As it stood, he had traveled to Imladris and found the echo of his own rage laid bare in the new manner of his daughter’s sons, their fairness now turned to fury and retribution. Celeborn sighed, and turned his contemplation from his own meandering thoughts to the path before him.

Coming through the pass had been less perilous then in previous eras. Elrond’s scouts and warriors, led by Glorfindel and the vagabond twins, were on constant vigilance against the forces of darkness, and a fairly safe traveling route had been cleared about the close confines of Imladris. It was only over the borders, in the hinterlands of no nations, that shadows crept, killing where they could. It had been in such a place that his daughter had fallen to darkness, brought low by foul hands and fouler intentions. He turned his mind from such thoughts, finding again the faint hope that she had once more found a sense of peace in the Undying Lands. For here in Middle Earth hope was but a faint glimmer in the mind, and peace was something that came only with sleep and faintly recollected dreams.

Lord Celeborn’s small band of s has had covered almost half the length of their journey, and this day had seen more miles pass behind them, leading them on beneath the long shadows of the Hithilgaer foothills. It was nearing nightfall when an outrider returned to the group, hurrying and breathless. He gave an abbreviated bow as he pulled his sweating mount into formation next to Celeborn.

“Sire! There is a small group ahead, along the next bend of the path. They are sequestered within a small copse. I did not pull close enough to ascertain their exact number, but they are more than we.”

“Humans?” Celeborn questioned.

“Nay, my lord. Edhil, but I do not believe of our kindred.”

Celeborn slowed his horse’s pace to a near stop. Edhil? Here, on the path between Imladris and Lorien? He and Galadriel had agreed that his own party would be the last to travel from Lothlorien this year, so he knew it could not be an ambassadorial group from his own realm, and, to the best of his knowledge, no large trading groups had planned to leave so late in the year, when the scent of future snow was already heavy upon the wind. The elves of Mirkwood rarely traveled in large groups this far west of their own lands, save those attempting the crossing to Mithlond, who were few. No, Celeborn had his own suspicions as to who these travelers may be, but proof was needed. Lifting a hand, he signaled to two of his guard. “Go with Cirion and discover who thtravtravelers are,” he directed.

The three elves departed, pushing their horses through the wooded path at a pace more suited to the open plains. The ringing sound of hooves impacting dry earth resounded hollowly, deadened against the surrounding trees. From the corner of his eyes, Celeborn could see the minute movements of his guards and fellow travelers, hands reaching to bow and arrow, knife and sword. Minutes later, the three elves returned, grins breaking out across their normally sedate faces.

“My lord! It is the Wandering Company – Lord Gildor’s people!”

An appreciative murmur went up amongst those still crowded about Celeborn. The ancient elf indulged in a rare smile all his own.

“Excellent news, Cirion. Let us join them for the night; such chances to welcome again old friends must not be allowed to pass by.” With that, Celeborn urged his horse forward, and the others feel into about him, as was their habit.

As they rounded the bend, Cirion pointed towards a small meandering turn that left the path on the eastward side, disappearing behind a small grove of elm, oak, and fern. Passing through the outermost circle of trees, Celeborn found himself within a small glade, ringed with trees and protected from casual discovery. The Wandering Company was spread about the glade, members occupied with various duties and activities. Faintly, Celeborn received the impression of shadowed figures within the trees, of weapons being checked and lowered, and he knew the scene before him was not as carefree as one would think.

“Lord Celeborn!”

Celeborn looked up to see Gildor, the leader of the Wandering Company, moving towards him, a smile playing about the corners of the Noldo’s mouth. The dark-haired elf stopped a respectful distance from Celeborn’s nervous steed, giving a graceful half-bow.

“My lord, it is good to see you so unexpectedly. Surely, the stars have blessed the path this day, to bring our groups to such an unexpected pass. It will be truly joyful to have you and your companions as guests this evening.”

Gildor appeared much as he had the last time Celeborn had seen him, some hundred or so years ago a feast in Imladris. He had the build and height of his Noldor ancestors, as well as their dark coloring of hair and eyes, although sunlight often showed the softer honey undertones within his dark tresses, belying his family’s partial Vanyar heritage. His visage was strikingly akin to that of his grandsire, Finrod, and Celeborn sometimes felt a strange sensation of temporal displacement, the past regained, when in the presence of the younger elf. However, there was no way one could willfully mistake one for the other, or force Gildor into the role of surrogate for his illustrious ancestor; the enigmatic force of his unique personality would not allow it.

Celeborn had to admit that that word – enigma – was the descriptor his mind oft returned to when he spent any amount of time thinking about Gildor. Born of so great and noble a lineage, Gildor should have been accorded the highest princely rank amongst those of his people still remaining within the land. Instead, he had spent most of his younger days within the court of Lindon in willful obscurity, deferring in all matters to his kinsman and king, and keeping his opinions safely locked away, unknown to the general masses of councilors and courtiers. And yet, even when it seemed he must step forward to claim a role of leadership within the larger scope of the elven realms at the beginning of the Third Age, Gildor had deferred yet again, choosing instead an itinerant life, lord only of a ragtag bunch of minstrels and wayfarers, calling no place home save Imladris, and only that on an impermanent basis. Celeborn knew the choice had rankled many, his own wife included. Up until that time she had still retained hope that her great-nephew would found a kingdom of own,own, or accept the ruling of Lindon for the remainder of the time of the wise within Middle Earth. His alternate choice had introduced a certain level of coolness to their relationship, and times the Wandering Company spent in Lothlorien as the guest of the Lady were few and far between.

Celeborn returned Gildor’s bow with a polite inclination of his head. “Indeed, providence has guided our journeying; left to chance in all this wilderness, and our paths coincide.”

“Indeed, it is doubly fortuitous that you happen upon us today, my lord. This morning several of my riders brought down a boar in the woods along the trail, and the creature has been roasting since mid-day. I am sure your band has not had the likes of such a meal since leaving Imladris,” Gildor stated, gesturing idly with a free hand.

Celeborn glanced to the middle of the glade, where a roasting pit had been dug, and lined with large stones. The boar carcass was being turned over in a gingerly fashion by two of Gildor’s people, the long pole doubling as a roasting spit secured between counterweights. Another elf added sweet herbs to the fire, the smell immediately springing into the air to tickle at the senses. In one blinding flash, Celeborn was reminded of nights long past, of courtly feasts punctuated by the subtle arts of cuisine and poetry, politics and love games. The remembered images were too faint to recollect properly, save for singular images of faces or impressions of conversations. The remembrance was bittersweet, tainted by the long years of strife and loss between his youth and the present, the shifted landscape of his people’s history. But even in this well of regret, Celeborn felt the gentle presence of that which was still good in his world, the unlooked for blessings granted by serendipity.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Gildor. My people will no doubt welcome a break from waybread and water. In all honesty, I welcome a chance to eat something more than lembas for a change,” he replied.

Gildor laughed, a clear note of approval that resounded amongst the encompassing trees. “As I said then, doubly fortuitous! It will be a little time yet before the boar is finished roasting. You have time to see to your horses and rest ere we eat.”

Celeborn inclined his head as he dismounted, body stretching as his feet touched the ground. It had been an arduous journey thus far, the Lorien group pushing both themselves and their steeds faster in hopes of gaining the borders of their homeland sooner then expected. “Again, I thank you. The path has been tiring, and I and my companions will treasure this chance to rest without care.”

As Celeborn turned back to his horse, the other members of his traveling party dismounted and began lightening their steeds of packs and traveling goods. A murmur of excitement went up from the gathered elves as friends long separated called out to one another. Celeborn busied himself with removing his storage packs and bedroll from his trusty stallion, imparting thanks and friendship with low murmurings and gentle brushes of fingers against the animal’s dust speckled coat. He looked up as he handed the horse’s packs off to his esquire to find that Gildor had moved off to speak with some of his own companions, leaving the lord of Lorien to his own devices. It was well enough with Celeborn to see to his horse’s care, turning the animal over to one of the Wandering Company who walked the animal, along with several others, to a small grazing area. By the time Celeborn had finished with these chores, his esquire had selected a spot to the leeward side of the glade, beneath a large overhanging oak and somewhat removed from the general camp commotion, where he had set aside his lord’s packs and prepared his bedroll.

Celeborn thankfully repaired to his bedroll, grateful for the unexpected chance to rest. The trail was a wearying adventure, even for one of his experience and endurance. He realized that it had been some time since he had last felt so weary, so desperately tired of both action and thought. It was not often that he felt the full weight of his many years weighing upon him, but this journey had taxed the very reserves of both his physical and emotional strength, tiring the Sinda to the very core of his being. He let his mind drift to more pleasant thoughts, imagining the beauty of his home amongst the mellryn, the rich fall of his wife’s hair across her shoulders as morning light shown through the portico arches of their talan. He smiled, feeling the memories of home and comfort spread like a warm balm across his spirit.

Celeborn had been resting for near to an hour, eyes vacant and unfocused, when he became aware of the light pressure of soundless footsteps moving towards him across the glade’s gentle sweep of grass.

Gildor crouched low beside Celeborn, gracefully poising his weight upon the balls of his feet. “And how are things in Imladris?” he asked quietly.

Celeborn allowed his eyes to regain slow focus on the face now peering down into his own. Gildor’s dark hair framed his face in loose tendrils, and the angle shadowed his eyes from scrutiny, the waning rays of sun casting his visage into near darkness. Celeborn felt strange beneath those searching opaque eyes and shifted into a sitting position, bringing their gazes to the same level. He thought a moment before answering his host’s question.

“Imladris is as fair as ever, and serene. It seems no great trial to conduct business in such a tranquil setting,” he finally answered.

Gildor returned his look of veiled interest, hinting at nothing beyond polite interest. “And my cousins fare well? It has been three years since the Company set out for the east, and I have often found my thoughts upon quiet nights turning to brood upon their welfare.”

“All are well. Elrond keeps himself busy and attentive to the workings of his city, and the news of distant lands. Of late his concerns have turned toward the kingdoms of men, and he keeps a close eye upon the south; to what end I know not, as he keeps quiet about his own thoughts. Arwen has been residing in Lorien for some time now. She is like a fair light amongst us, and a great joy to myself and Galadriel.”

“You have neglected two s,” s,” Gildor replied softly.

Gildor canted his head slightly and looked closely at Celeborn. Unnerved, Celeborn allowed his own gaze to rove about the camp, taking in the bustle of late day chores, flicking from face to face as his thoughts turned. Yes, he had willed himself to omit mention of both his grandsons, for what neutral thing could be said about them now? Shock and deep regret had filled Celeborn upon first seeing the twins again in Imladris. Where there had once been twin elf-men akin to their mr’s r’s happy mien of character, Celeborn discovered now two hardened wanderers, quiet and grim in appearance and intent. Joy seemed to have fled from their lives, replaced by determined malice, a steel-edged wish to destroy all those responsible for the shattering of the happy life they had once known. This continued effect of his daughter’s ordeal hit doubly at Celeborn, for it caused him to remember not only the original disaster, but to lament the passing of the fragile peace his life had known for a short time.

With a sigh, he turned back to Gildor. “What would you have me say, Gildor? That they have unexpectedly found a new peace and calm within their lives in the short time you have been absent? No, that would be too much to hope. They continue in their quest, and its purpose is now their life. Grievous harm was my daughter dealt, but thrice-fold has it affected her sons; in its origins, in their mother’s leaving, and, now, in the continued hatred it breeds within them.”

Gildor met Celeborn’s gaze with new intensity, his grey eyes seeming to catch the remaining warmth of the late light. “They do as they feel they must, as their honor compels them to do. Yes, that original evil breeds evil in its wake, and dire are its effects, but it will not last. Their mother’s torture is still fresh in their memories, but soon enough time will begin to soften the urgency of their hatred, to turn the immediate blaze of hatred to something less intense, but still as potent. Then they will begin to remember what life was like before these dark days, and yearn once again to return to some semblance of their old ways.”

Celeborn smiled bitterly. “Are you a seer now, Gildor? Does the water bring secret messages to you as it once did to your grandsire? Can you foretell my future days?”

Gildor shook his head, a rueful smile playing across his own mouth in turn. “Nay, best to consult my dear aunt if you wish for prophetic words.”

They were quiet a moment, and then Celeborn said, “If it were only so simple.”

“No, even Galadriel can not know what the future truly holds. But I can tell you what I have seen in my wanderings these past few years; the dark creatures are multiplying and moving once more, and there is little that can be done to stop them. Sooner or later, war will be upon us again,” Gildor confided.

Celeborn sighed and closed his eyes, the images of battles past haunting his mind. “And do you think we will survive this one?”

Gildor shrugged. “I do not believe this will be our war to wage. Our numbers dwindle, and more of our race moves to the West with each passing day. Our days here are done, fading. This war will be for men to conduct, and the doom of this land will lay in their hands.”

At that moment, a cheer went up from the central camp, and both elves turned to see what had transpired. The boar had been removed from the fire pit, and one of Gildor’s company was sharpening a long knife, making ready to carve the roast ass.ass. Elves from both groups had begun forming in a loose circle in the center of the glade, lounging about a large fire; a harper began playing a song of the hunt and feast.

Gildor stood, offering a hand to Celeborn to help him up from his seated position. “Enough of these fell tidings. Let us accept the good that can still be found in this world, and enjoy the moment as we find it. There are too many possibilities to worry about what tomorrow may bring.”

Celeborn sighed as he accepted Gildor’s help, rising gracefully from his bedroll. “True enough.”

By the time they had joined the increased group by the fire, Celeborn’s esquire had prepared a plate for his lord: thick slices of roasted boar meat, dried fruits from the Wandering Company’s provisions, and nuts and wild lettuces gathered within the small glade. As Celeborn inclined before the fire, Gildor appeared at his side once more, carrying a goblet and glass bottle. He unstopped the bottle and poured some of its contents, a wine of velvety-black character, into the goblet. Celeborn took the goblet when it was proffered, inhaling the sharp, dark tang of the wine’s aroma before taking a small sip. His face immediately lit upthe the liquid passed over his palate. A burst of vibrant flavor assailed him, evocations of flower and bee, grape and meadow, passing with the quick intake of liquid. “This is a Dorwinion vintage!” he cried.

Gildor laughed. “Of course, my lord. What did you think we do when we travel to the east? Trade for baubles? Nay, we barter for more potent luxuries by far. Elrond learned long ago that he could save much by dealing with the Dorwinion vintners first hand, bypassing Thranduil’s tariffs. Now, excuse me while I see to my own meal.”

Celeborn took another draught of the wine, long and in earnest this time, as Gildor disappeared to the far side of the camp. The delicious food, especially the dark meat, set off the wine perfectly, and the elf lord found himself delighting at the perfect simplicity of the moment. More elves had gathered about the fire, their conversations creating a pleasant low hum, erstwhile accompaniment to the joyful music that was now being produced by a growing number of musicians. Celeborn was surprised to see that the youngest of his guards, Rúmil, had joined them, adding his light, lilting voice to the chorus of the song. The elder elf smiled to see the simple joy reflected in the faces and eyes of his people, and put aside his own dark thoughts of earlier, vowing instead to enjoy these simple pleasures offered by chance.

Gildor rejoined him at the fireside, now carrying his own plate and a second bottle and goblet. There was little conversation as the two set about enjoying their food and wine, ears attuned to the music of flute and pipe and voice. When the first tune ended, both joined their traveling companions in applause and requests, laughing as the songs chosen became increasingly ribald and scandalous.

Celeborn reached for the original wine bottle and found it empty. Confounded, he poured a glass from the second bottle Gildor had brought over. He gave a small laugh as he accidentally sloshed some of the precious liquid over the top of the goblet, and made to catch some of the overflow from the side of the goblet with his tongue.

Gildor gave him a curious stare. “I think, my lord, that you may have had too much wine tonight.”

Celeborn fixed him with a patronizing eye. “Nonsense,” he declared, and was a little surprised to find his speech slightly slurred.

Gildor lifted a hand to Celeborn’s face, lightly passing the tips of his fingers across the other’s cheek. “No, see here, your pale skin is highly flushed. You have most assuredly had too much wine tonight.”

Celeborn shied away from the unfamiliar touch, not wishing for Gildor to see how his actions provoked another, deeper blush. “Nonsense,” he repeated, low and into the cup he quickly raised to his lips.

Gildor smiled. “Perhaps another entertainment will take your mind off the wine. Several of my people learned new dances from some of the human travelers we met during our journey.” Gildor turned and gestured to a young elf maiden, saying something in a low tone that Celeborn could not catch. The elf maiden stood, pulling a young male along with her, and moved to a clear space on the opposite side of the fire. The musicians trailed off, switching from the Beleriandic folk tune they had been playing to a song Celeborn had never heard before, its melodies low and pulsing, seeming to hint at a restrained violence just beneath the surface of the notes. As the new song began, the two dancers commenced their movements, bodies twisting sensuously toward and away from one another in a slow rhythm, shadows merging and separating upon the grass.

Celeborn inclined his head toward Gildor. “What is this dance? It is almost animalistic.”

Gildor sipped at his wine, his gaze never wavering from the two dancers. “It is a folk dance we learned from a traveling band of humans in the east. It tells the story of a young maiden pursued by a god who is bent upon ravishing her. He chases her long, over plains and deserts and through forests. She evades him, but her strength begins to weaken, and he closes, intent upon her capture. At the last, she calls upon the native spirits of the forest, and they transform her into a tree, forever safe from the ill intentions of the errant god.”

Celeborn looked at the dancers again, and now he could see the meaning of the stilted, discordant movements, the mockery of prey and victim. “But no Vala or Maia would do such a thing!”

Gildor shrugged. “I do not believe some of these vagabond human tribes have ever heard of the Valar, or even Iluvatar. Their native beliefs seem to have some correlations to our own stories and histories, but they appear mostly invented.”

Celeborn nodded, only half listening to Gildor’s reply. The warmth of the fire and wine were taking hold of his body, making him feel languid and sluggish. The beat of the music seemed to entwine with his own pulse, lulling him into a trance-like state as he watched the dancers elude each other through the flickering light of the camp’s fire. There was a tug upon the sleeve of his tunic, and he looked down to see Gildor’s hand, touched bronze by the firelight. Gildor inclined his head toward the edge of the circle where the musicians had gathered, and Celeborn followed his gaze. He saw one of the musicians of the band, a stranger from Gildor’s troupe, leaning in to whisper into Rúmil’s ear. The young sylvan elf had turned his face down, eyes half-closed as he listened to the other elf’s whisperings. As Celeborn watched, Rúmil blushed and nodded his head once, slowly, but did not raise his eyes from his lap, where the musician had now entwined one of his hands with Rúmil’s own. Hesitantly, the two stood, slipping mostly unnoticed from the revelers to the copse of trees behind them.

The pressure of Gildor’s hand upon his sleeve increased, and Celeborn found himself being pulled unsteadily to his feet, protestations falling away as Gildor led them into the wood. Once beyond the outer ring of elm, Gildor turned to their right, slowly changing their line to intercept the path of Rúmil and his companion had taken into the trees. Within a few moments, the elf lord’s sharp hearing picked up the sounds of low gasps and whispers, the sibilant noises leading their feet more effectively than any visual clue. After a few steps, Gildor pulled Celeborn aside, halting to stand half-concealed by the trunk of a large oak.

Ahead of them on the path could be seen Rúmil and his companion, silvery moonlight highlighting them in pale, cold relief. Celeborn watched as they kissed, Rúmil pressing himself back against a tree as his partner become bolder, demanding. Hands pressed across chest and limbs, skittered over clothes, worked at finding openings to tunics and breeches. When one succeeded Rúmil gave a low, keening gasp, moving his head to the side so that a pair of lips could work against the damp skin of his neck. Their bodies pressed closer as clothes shifted and slipped to the ground, beseeching movements framed within the pale stretch of an arm, the canted angle of a neck, the graceful arch of a smooth, pale back.

Beneath the sheltering branches of the oak, Celeborn idly wondered at his own lack of morals in watching the private joining of one of his guardians and a complete stranger. He did not question the apparent absence of shame within himself as he continued to watch the scene before him progress, reaching to palm at the arousal hidden by his breeches. He was strangely unsurprised when other hands, sure and insistent, joined his own. His thinking became detached in an almost amused way as Gildor raised a hand to brush Celeborn’s hair away from his neck while lazily stroking between the elder elf’s thighs. The silver-haired elf mused that it seemed an odd kind of mirror image; Rúmil being kissed and stroked by an elf-man standing before him, himself receiving the same attentions from Gildor standing behind him.

Gildor’s hands moved over his skin, exploratory touches playing beneath fabric, seemingly uninterested in a fuller display of the other’s body. On their own, these touches would have done little to inflame Celeborn’s ardor, but they were aided by the sight of Rúmil and his chosen, naked now and reclining upon the rich, cool ground. Celeborn gasped in tandem with the unknown elf as Rúmil’s mouth sought the flesh of his partner’s erection, golden hair spilling over pallid thighs. The gasp was replaced by a slight, involuntary moan as warm air rushed past his left ear, a low laugh sounding close to the side of his face.

“You take such pleasure in watching, my lord,” Gildor breathed, lips trailing to taste the delicate skin covering the shell of Celeborn’s ear.

“I find pleasure in seeing one who can still feel some joy,” he answered in a low tone, eyes never leaving the tableau before him. Rúmil’s partner reversed their bodies, rolling the younger elf beneath him and undulating slowly.

Gildor’s hands moved beneath Celeborn’s breeches, cuppins bus buttocks in a kneading grasp. “You can still feel you own pleasure if you only allow it, silver one.”

Celeborn closed his eyes momentarily, shutting out the sight of the two elves before him. His own pleasure – he wondered what could be left of it. He opened his eyes and regarded Rúmil once more, beautiful and lost within his desire. Deliberately, he arched back against Gildor, pressing himself against the other’s hard length. “Let me feel, then,” he whispered.

Gildor’s ministrations sped forward, much as those of the elf with Rúmil, and Celeborn soon found himself kneeling, breeches pooling about his knees, as Gildor worked fingers and oil into his backside, breath blowing warm across Celeborn’s neck. He was strangely pleased when he felt himself being entered by Gildor at the same time Rúmil, bent double beneath his chosen, gave a gasping cry signaling his own submission. The pairs moved discordantly after that moment, though, as Gildor seemed intent upon taking Celeborn both rougher and quicker than the scene progressing before them. In Celeborn’s mind, it did not matter; pleasure was found more in watching the shifting of soft responses across Rúmil’s face than the possessive touches claiming and then leaving his own body. Softly, Celeborn timed the strokes he gave his own arousal to the increasing movements of Rúmil’s body, so that his self-given release came at the same time the younger elf arched beneath his partner and cried aloud. Gildor shifted behind him, allowing their bodies to separate so that clothes could be tidied and rearranged. Celeborn walked back to camp alone, leaving the image of two young lovers still entwined upon the forest floor behind him.

By the time Celeborn regained his bedroll, the aftereffects of wine and spent passion had cleared from his mind, and he found the camp strangely quiet. Many had fallen asleep, either from wine or exhaustion, or moved off into the surrounding trees, electing to grant chance yet more conquests this night. The Lord of Lorien dropped to his bed, feeling strangely lighter than he had upon his arrival at the Wandering Company’s camp. He remembered Gildor’s words from earlier in the evening, and wondered that their truth should be proven in such a way. There did come a time when anger and sadness passed, and a semblance of the former self returned, even if it be found in the image of another.