“We don’t know what we have until it is taken from us,” he said quietly, looking to the Echoriath in the distance. Warm winds blew the edge of the green garment held tightly in his fist that dangled down towards the floor. He kept his hands gripped on the sill of the open window to keep himself steady- too often in these last few days he had dissolved into a fit of tears, falling to the floor and demanding to know why, why his lover was taken from him, why so young, why not someone else. So many questions, without any answers.

He heard the whispers though others perhaps did not think he did. “He was handsome, that one,” they would say to one another and nod. “Everyone loved him; what a gentle soul.”

That was the truth, indeed. Everyone was enamored by the Lord of the Golden Flower. Volumes could be written on his kindness and compassion, on the devotion those of his house had for him. When he had taken to courting the scribe and historian of his house, some were shocked that he would was not considering at least a marriage of convenience to produce an heir, for it was not altogether unheard of. Instead, he had insisted, when questioned, that he had no right to capture a soul that Eru did not intend for him.

On the practice fields, he was a sight to behold. His sword was swift and his strokes perfect. Few could match his speed and agility, save for those such as Ecthelion, captain of the guard and Lord of the Fountain. The pair had long been friends, and often sparred in the courtyard, sometimes right around the very fountain at the center.

There were always the dangers of being a guardian of one of the gates, of taking patrols out beyond the city walls. This was a danger that Glorfindel had long dismissed, for the Lord of the Golden Flower had been well-trained and nearly unmatched. What foe would fell one so prepared for battle, let alone dare engage him?

It had been Glorfindel who had insisted on a wedding in the Summer, for Summer was his favorite of seasons, but he left it to Erestor to choose the day. As the Gates of Summer were known as a time of great celebration, it seemed only natural to choose the day for their nuptials. No one could know a hundred or so years later, it would be a day of mourning for one of them and a day of death for the other. King Turgon presided, as was expected, and the entire court was present as well as a large number of the residents. The feasting lasted three whole days, but after the first few hours of celebration, the newly married lovers were not seen for almost a week.

So they happily lived together, scribe and warrior, at the heart of the city with little fear of anything ill happening to the other. The lord was afraid of nothing, and his consort simply basked in matrimonial bliss that neither could conclude that anything would ever cause them to part.

It came back to, why? Why had they never thought of this? Why had no one else mentioned the possibility? Why had he been there, why had he slipped on the ledge, why had no one been there to help him, why had no one tried to catch him as he fell?

“It happened so fast” and “He was so brave” were the only answers he ever got.

“And why do I linger? Why do I remain?” The scribe lifted his eyes from the tunic he held in his hands, stitched with the golden rays of the sun, the one he had held so many nights in an attempt to comfort himself, in an attempt to rid himself of the pain that tore his heart. “Why have I not faded?”

The elf beside him shook his own head, sorrow on his face as well. “I have no answers for you, my friend. Perhaps you are still needed here. Perhaps he wishes for you to stay, and he has himself begged Namo not to call you.”

“I want to be with him,” sobbed the ellon, crumpling to the floor. He was on his knees, pressing the fabric to his chest. “I want him back. I ache so, and I want to be with him again.”

“One day, you will, there there, do not cry. Warriors do not cry,” he was told as he was helped up from the floor. “He would not want you to.”

“I am no warrior,” he sniffled as he was walked to a chair and sat down, still clinging to his fallen lover’s clothing. “Nor will I ever be.”

“Then you must choose a successor to him, it is only fair. The lord of the house takes up the banner, becomes its captain and leader,” explained the elf beside him. “He had no sons, no brother, no nephews or cousins. You are his only living relative. You must either step up or step down.”

For a while he was silent as he wiped his tears, desperately hoping to awaken from this dream. One hand still held the cloth, the other reached out for the hand of the other elf. “Would he have wanted this?”

“I think so,” came the reply without hesitation.

Taking a deep sigh, he asked, “What must I do?”

“Take up the banner of the House of the Golden Flower, Glorfindel,” answered Ecthelion. “You are its Lord now.”