(Oh no poor Glorfindel)
“Rest now, my friend.” Fingolfin applies a cool cloth infused with healing herbs to the sick elf’s forehead.
“I do not believe you acted with anything but selflessness during that horrific period.”
Glorfindel moaned as the feeling of the cloth caused his body to shiver. Burning. He was burning again. And freezing. Screams. Cries. Turgon's agaonizing cry. His wife's soft smile. His mind deaperately gripped onto the familiar voice of his foster father. Calm. Soothing. A place that always sown the feeling of warmth and safety within him. He turmed his head to the voice his mind a wash of confusing images. "Ataya-tried-I wanted-tried-" A tear mingled with the sweat as his fever fought to break














