In Gondolin, each of the realm’s captains had a nickname given to them by Turgon.  It just happened; perhaps a little game their king played in trying to determine what best suited everyone.  They were nearly all animals, some of them from those in Valinor, and others that he had seen while crossing the Helcaraxe.  Salgant was the walrus; Rog, a rhinoceros.  Ecthelion’s name was a play on words after a discussion Turgon had with Hurin and Huor, and was afterwards known as the lion.

To match the lion, his other chief captain became the tiger.  Of course, Turgon sometimes said it was because of Glorfindel’s ferocity in battle.  At other times, when the light shined just right and picked up the faint red highlights in the chief of the Golden Flower’s hair, he would be teased that it was because he was a ginger in disguise.

After Gondolin, after his brief time in the healing darkness, he kept the moniker – preferred it, really.  He reflected upon this as he dressed for the day.  Simple clothing that was easy to move in was requested, and he kept it simple – pants and tunic, but a black shirt with long sleeves underneath.  He was still in mourning, though privately, for the land that was lost.  There was also the matter of his stripes.

There was one on his cheek, but the rest he could keep hidden.  For some reason, he had expected them to heal just as his spirit had.  When his memories returned, so did they – or perhaps they had been there, and gone unnoticed.  Whatever the case, the scars from the balrog’s lash appeared to have permanently marred him – a constant reminder of so much.

Yesterday was the spear.  Today was axes.  Glorfindel looked upon the Dwarven weapons propped in the corner with disdain.  He had been a proficient swordsman and an excellent shot with a bow.  Why he had to learn the gamut of weaponry was beyond him – there would be few times if any when he would be forced into such dire need as to use an axe.  However, he had already been informed of the fact that tomorrow was daggers, and his teacher did not like them to fall behind.

A combination of boredom and curiosity had taken him to the great exhibition that was held some months ago.  It was a call to all warriors who had a desire to return to Middle-earth on a special task appointed by the Valar.  Only one would be chosen; Glorfindel had doubted his ability, but competed anyhow.  His final match was the toughest – Eol likely would have bested him – but someone called foul when they saw that the dark elf had been cheating.  Winning by default was not preferred, but it was a win nonetheless.  For Glorfindel, it had actually been the first fight he could count as a win – neither Nirnaeth Arnoediad nor the sack of Gondolin had gone all that well, and the fight with the balrog he considered a painful draw.

The Valar, he soon learned, had not been entirely forthcoming (when had they ever?).  He learned that there was to be retraining and testing – nonsensical quests that measured his spirit and skill.  He was still sore about having to hike across to the other side of Valinor to retrieve a single berry from a particular tree, only to learn that he would have been permitted to sail a ship around the island in order to complete the task.  Sometimes, he thought to reconsider and resign.  Then he would recall the bitter taste of defeat, and carry on.

So today it was axes, and Eonwe, his ever-patient instructor, awaited him in the specially built practice field that took up the majority of what had once been Glorfindel’s garden and back lawn.  Instead of a flat space, there were small structures built to simulate battle between buildings, inside houses, on stairways, and even underground.  Glorfindel really hated the underground simulations and hoped they would be done with those quickly.

Glorfindel walked down the stairs and entered through the archway that took him onto the training grounds.  He set the axes he had been given earlier in the week onto the table beside the ones that he assumed Eonwe brought with him.  While Eonwe readied the field for the day’s events, Glorfindel sat down in the grass and took the time to properly stretch.

There was one particular thing about Eonwe that made him appreciate the Ainu.  That was, that no matter how stubborn everyone else was about calling him by his preferred name, Manwe’s herald had never even questioned it.  Eonwe approached, and Glorfindel stood up.  “Morning, Tiger,” said the weapon master, and he gave Glorfindel a pat on the back.  “Ready?”

For a brief moment, Glorfindel smiled.  It was probably the only time he would all day.  “Morning.”  The smile faded, and he was all business.  “Ready.”