It does not matter how many years, how many decades,
how many centuries I lie beside him. It is always the
same question. I have been his friend, his guardian,
his lover for so many ages of this Middle Earth, and
still he must ask. Sometimes I think I should take
offense at the quiet plea, whispered as we share
touches and shudder in each other's arms, as we die
and are reborn together nightly. Surely by now he
knows the answer.
But I know him. And I do not begrudge him his
question.
Oftentimes, when we have ceased to pant and writhe
against one another and he has invariably laid his
head on my breast, resting his beautiful body against
me, I wonder how anyone could ever bear to leave him.
How any parents could manage to set such a child
aside. But his parents were wrapped up in each other
and in their own fates. Their fates were grand indeed,
and his...his is a lonesome one.
It did not truly surprise him when Arwen made her
decision. My lover reads fates and prophecies better
than any that now live, and he had been preparing
himself for her loss since the day he welcomed Aragorn
into his household. Nor did it truly surprise him when
the twins decided to stay behind us in Imladris, at
least for a season. He did not foresee this; but I
think he had been waiting for them to leave him for
some time now, simply because everyone else has. I
know he worries that one of them will make a decision
that will break the other's heart, as Elros broke his
heart so many millennia ago. One of the earliest
betrayals, but no less painful for being so long past.
It is Elros's name, out of all of them, that he still
whispers in his sleep.
Sleep is when my lover is the most vulnerable. I would
never leave him then, not even if he were ever to turn
me from his bed. I would sleep in the hall outside his
door to protect him. When my love goes to his rest he
is not only physically defenseless, but emotionally as
well. He is no longer the sage dispenser of wisdom, no
longer the imposing elf lord. My lover wears a
heavy-layered mask of age and dignity as he goes about
his day, but behind locked doors the layers fall away
and he becomes a child, begging to be loved. I would
not have any other see him this way. Call me a jealous
lover if you wish. There are people in this world,
some of them elvenkind, who cannot help but attack
when they see that kind of vulnerability. They must
remind themselves of their own dominance; they must
push themselves up by pressing others down beneath
them. I am not one of this kind.
Instead I pour myself out into him, trying desperately
to fill his heart though I know it to be impossible.
The years have taught me that. His capacity to love is
so great, and he loves so many so freely. And though
they sometimes love him in return, it is never enough.
How could it be, when the love he receives is never
equal to the love he has given, never enough to fill
the parts of himself that he has emptied? They do not
choose him.
Sometimes I wish he loved me less. If I cared for him
more than he did for me, then just maybe I could make
up the difference. Maybe my love, given so freely,
could begin to fill those empty spaces. But our
passions are evenly matched. He gives back to me every
shred of loving energy I give to him; and never once
has he asked me for more. He does not ask that I
protect him, that I nurture him, that I change my life
to surround his. He does not make any requests of me.
He does not ask me to show my love to him in flowered
words, or ask any lover's token of me; he does not
even ask to choose when and how we make love. He wants
only one thing of me.
It is the only thing he has ever asked of me, and
though I make it nightly it remains the only vow I
have ever made to him. I do not make vows lightly. The
Valar learned how seriously I take my vows when I
demanded to be allowed to return to him. Generally one
does not demand things of the Valar. But I did; I
would not, will not, leave him.
It took many years to convince the Valar that my
purpose was just and after my rebirth it took many
years to find him again. I remember the look of
surprise on his face the first time he saw me, for he
knew me in my new body instantly.
I remember how he cried that night after we made love,
how he cried not tears of joy or of relief, but as
though he was in sudden pain. I remember how I tried
so hard to comfort him, how I pulled him close and
tried everything I could think to do or say until at
last, not knowing what else to do, I moved closer to
him and made love to him again, tender and slow as he
likes it best. Drowsy and sated in my arms afterward,
the tears stopped. He asked me, then. And I think it
was then that I realized he would never be done
asking.
He never said her name—not while we were in bed
together, not in front of the children, not anytime if
it could be avoided. I thought it unfair to the
children, but I understood. He explained why she had
left them, and I understood that too. We never said
anything about the new shadows under his eyes, or in
them. There was no need to speak of what we both knew.
Now the list of partings seems complete, for it has
come down to just he and I lying here together—a full
bed in an empty household. And once again, we are
broken. There is no lovemaking without sorrow, not for
many years now. Perhaps there will be again, someday.
But for now I strive to put us back together. He is
biting his lip, trying not to say it. I am patient; I
roll him under me and kiss every inch of him that I
can find, so gently, so tenderly. Reminding him that I
love him, reminding him that it is all right to ask.
He feels guilt, I think, that he still must ask after
all this time. Surely the years have proved my loyalty
by now. Yet we still dance the same dance together,
one day, one decade, one century after another. We
roll together on the bed or the leaves or wherever we
have chosen to make our love. I take possession of his
body; I strip away all his defenses and make him mine.
I push myself into his core and he is naked before me.
And as he writhes, his fingers wind into my hair as
though he would build a rope binding me to him. They
dig into my body and leave bruises behind, anchoring
me in the only way he knows how. Often there are no
words between us until his body rushes towards its
completion, and his soul is open. He cries,
"Glorfindel, stay with me."
I reply, "I will stay." And I drive myself into him
and make us one yet again, as we fly and fall
together. We hold each other close and for a moment we
are at peace—until the next time we lie together,
until the next time he must ask me. Now in the sweaty
aftermath, I stroke his hair and he smiles at me,
forgetting he has ever needed to ask. But I remember,
and my answer will ever be the same. I look at him,
and my gaze says: I will stay.
