“I say we bring him home.” Tears ran down Nienna’s face, but no longer did she bother wiping them away. “He should grieve here, among his family. There is little left for him now.”

“I say we persuade him to travel to the East.” Namo surveyed the map that glimmered in the pool, compliments of Ulmo who was only partially exposed from the water, droplets still running off his shoulders and chest now and then. “His influence would bring about better order, and peace to the turmoil in those lands.”

“I say we find a way to send the rest of his soul back to him.” Ulmo idly ran his fingers through the water, causing ripples in the map, but Namo shook his head. “I thought by now he would be ready to return.”

“I say when they are ready to go back,” spoke Namo softly.

“I say,” growled a voice that had long stayed silent, “that you leave him alone!” Irmo glared at his siblings, then at Ulmo. “Enough distress and conflict have you made him endure – let him choose his own path! None of you have any right to meddle with his affairs. He is Orome’s son, and only he and perhaps Nessa have any say in his future. Besides, he is one of us – do you not recall how upset we became when Melkor tried to twist and bend us as he willed? Leave Ress be; it is what Father would want.”

I say to you, listen to the story now, in Erestor’s own words.

Yesterday I arrived in Greenwood. I still miss home. Gondolin. I miss the dandelions, the poppies of scarlet. I miss the fountain. I miss all of it. After this many years I suppose I should be able to move on. But I hear their voices inside my head and I can see them in my dreams.

At least I am no longer in Amdir's service. As I never plan to go back again, I can write without fear that his son was at least three branches shy of a tree. A perfect example of what inbreeding will do to the offspring.

I wish I was in Gondolin, but at least I am among friends.

-E


---

“You could have come here first.” It is the same reaction I have received from each and every elf who knew me from Doriath.

“Thank you, I know.” My reply is the same, but for him, I do not turn and walk away. “I was... too embarrassed to
come here at first.”

“Why is that?”

Thranduil, I have noticed, has not only grown incredibly since last I saw him, but he has matured. Beyond myself in some ways, perhaps. It is what separates the future kings from the peasants. First I look down the hall, and when I see no one is there, I say, “Your son fought
bravely in the fall of Gondolin; he led the survivors to safety. He braved so many perils, and then, returned to you here with the glory of a hero. I was not about to mar that return by bringing a coward to your door.”

“Erestor, you are being ridiculous.” Thranduil shakes his head. “The way Legolas tells it, you were taking up the rear position and fought until the balrog came.”

The word, that evil word, makes me flinch. I leave things be at that; there is no use arguing with Thranduil. Not now, not while my defenses are down. So, I bow my head, and hope he goes away. I should know better.

“You will be coming to dinner with us tonight, of course.” Thranduil walks to the windows that are high up on the wall, very near to the low ceiling and pulls back the curtain. “Adar said to tell you that you should take a little while to adjust and then think about what you would like to accomplish while you are here.”

“How is he?” I ask, uncertain of what I am to call Oropher. He adopted me in Doriath, to keep me safe and out of jail – something he never had to do. Something I do not think I ever fully appreciated while there. Although he never had to, he also told me I had the
same right to call him father as his own son did, and as Thaladir had been given leave to. Thaladir never did; so I followed suit. It was such a small thing I could have – should have done, to show my gratitude. A simple thing that would have given Oropher a little extra happiness, and yet...

“He is still upset that you did not come to him first, no matter the reason.” Thranduil gave an elegant shrug. “It will pass.”

I hope he is right. Whether or not Oropher will take me
back as his adopted son, at least I know I am welcome here. Of course, I would not be surprised if I am made to work in the kitchens washing dishes for a while. My worries dissipated during dinner. When I arrived in the hall, Ilmendin and Legolas waved me to a seat between them. Oropher sat across from them, but his back was to me. Swallowing hard, I swiftly walked to the table and sat down, keeping my eyes upon my plate. When the hall had nearly filled, Oropher stood and in his booming voice with hands folded and eyes to the floor, he led those
in the room in a prayer over the meal. I will admit, I felt foolishly out of place, not knowing quite where my hands should be or if I should be saying the words with them or not.

Somehow, I realized in awe, Oropher and his family had managed to convert the many Sylvan elves that had followed him from Laurelindorinan. On many occasions, Amdir mentioned that a host of Galadhrim had left his realm and traveled with Oropher. Among these, a guide he had called Saelbeth, a loss to the Galadhrim, he would say. Now, I am shaking hands with this ellon, and I smile and nod as I should. He is pleased to meet me; I should
say something similar and so I do, though something about him reminds me of Gildor. My stomach clenches; to think of Gildor reminds me of...

“Erestor, are you alright?” Hisre, ever a mother, concerns herself with looking over my figure, and clicks her tongue. “You are paler than I remember! And how thin!”

Within seconds she has portioned food onto my plate, and I have not the heart to tell her that I no longer eat meat. Just the smell of it reminds me of the burning, the screaming and the dying, the stench of baking flesh. I take a deep breath and thank her. My eyes are still averting themselves from Oropher. I miss answering the question that Saelbeth asks, so Legolas speaks for me.

“He was a Captain in Gondolin. He fought the only house of fighters on horseback – with the exception of Salgant, who would not have made it three minutes in a battle
on foot. Erestor’s company were archers – you should have seen them ride as they shot at the demons that were attacking from the air. It was incredible.”

Feeling Saelbeth’s gaze on me, I can tell what he is thinking. ‘This? This was a Captain of Gondolin?’

Hisre’s observations are correct – I am not what I once was, even in Doriath. I can see my ribs beneath my skin when I undress before a mirror; my hair has thinned and is no longer sleek and black, but coarse and little more
than a muddy grey. There is no laughter in my eyes, and barely any light, either. And always, the cold. I know what it is – but how I have come to begin fading so slowly, I do not know. My grief over the loss of the city and those I loved is great, but there was no one to whom I was bound. In the back of my mind, there is one idea, but I push it away and bury it, just like I buried him.
The prospect of where that path leads frightens me, so I deny it with every ounce of my ability.

“Ion-nin, would you mind passing the salt?” I barely hear
Oropher’s words, lost in my daydreaming, until Legolas gives me a nudge. I glance down the table, and note that both Thranduil and Thaladir are too far away to hear, and deep in their own conversation. Sitting within reach of my right hand is a jar of salt. Shakily, my hand picks it up and still keeping my head bowed, I hold it out to Oropher. “Thank you.” He takes the jar and sets it
down, then speaks to Saelbeth. “He is the third I mention to you; of course, Thranduil is the first and yet the youngest, and Thaladir the second and next oldest, and Erestor was a bit of an unexpected blessing. My father told me once after my sister ran off and married her true love without his permission, that if I was wise I would have two sons instead of two daughters or a son and a
daughter. Well, now I have three – just a little unconventionally. The fact that two of them were raised by other parents saved me the stress.”

A tear falls from my eye as I realize how forgiving of a father Oropher is. I blame it on the onions. Adar and I both know better.