Fields of gold

Glorfindel

7000 years...

Hazel eyes widened, searching his face. He knew she was searching for signs of age.

"You were born before the Christ," she breathed in awe. "Before the first Olympic games, the pyramids. You came into the world when writing was invented."

Little did she know he would probably not last more than a few more decades here. Eventually, her shoulders seemed to relax and a new light flickered in her eyes, one he knew well; curiosity. Understanding. The look of a linguist that sunk its teeth in a new dialect.

"That's how you know so many things," she told him. "How you learn so fast. "

Elanor had puzzled over his abilities to heal, but also his talent for leaning languages, games, for drawing and cooking amongst other sings. For a human in his twenties, that set of skills would have sounded preposterous. He saw the moment the puzzle pieces slid into place in her mind, and he gave her a wary smile.

"Perhaps."

She returned his smile with one of her own, and he found his heart hammering faster at the gentle expression. Then, slowly, she approached and knelt before him. Her fingers grazed his temple before she retreated, her irises captivating in the evening light. How strange, he thought, to be so helplessly trapped in another's eyes.

"That's why your gaze always feels so ageless."

If he did not understand her phrasing, Laurë could easily discern the meaning. He ignored if Elanor was aware that her aura was still caressing his, even though her body remained at a more respectable distance. Very few elves dared intruding that way, and he wondered, for a second, if the peaceful feeling came from her, or the sensation altogether.

Even Echtelion, whose touches were the most frequent, always reigned in his aura. Except when he played the flute... then, all bets were off, and half of Gondolin basked in his talent.

Echtelion. The mere thought of him sickened him. Cut down one too many times, and drowned in the fountain, symbol of his house. Damn Melko and his goons of darkness !

"And you will never die ?"

Stricken, Laurë took a moment to rein in his anguish at the idea of all his comrades, dead, when they should have enjoyed immortality. He, who shunned this world for being corrupted, was reminded how middle earth suffered under the dark Vala's reign. Was Beleriand so plagued by Morgoth that it could not be saved ? Had they sinned, out of pride, when crossing the Helcaraxë, hoping for greener pastures, for their own dominion ?

Many of them lamented the loss of Valinorë, of its simplicity and peace. Laurëfindelë was one of them, becoming a warrior out of necessity. Head of his house because his own father had refused to defy the Vala. Loyalty to King Turgon had swayed his decision to follow the exile.

The caress returned, and with it, a warm hand to encompass his fingers. She always knew when he struggled. "I'm sorry, this was thoughtless of me," she breathed, features twisted in regret.

"We can be killed," he admitted, swallowing the lump in his throat. "The Quendi, we have same fate as Arda. We pray her, and she ... feeds us."

"Nurture you ?" Elanor offered.

He nodded his assent. Yes, nurture was a better word than feed, for Arda's energy also kept them sane, connected, and bright. It was always there, the conscience of the earth beneath their feet, or its presence in the air. Every corruption of the ground, every desecration was a slight against Arda.

"A symbiosis," Elanor concluded. "So what fate awaits you here ?"

Nailed it.

"I will age. Like your mother. I will..."