(Set right after Loss and Dying Music)
He could not remember much. Time had even less meaning than before. Everything seemed too quiet, as if he heard it through heavy curtains, too grey as if a heavy fog lay over the world, except in the dreams which were so loud and so brightly coloured that he avoided falling asleep as much as he could.
Someone spoke to him. His fingers touched soft fabric, trailed along the fine lines – expertly woven, he thought. Soft linen, no twigs and thorns and dense foliage. Soft linen – Imladris. “I am in Imladris” he repeated in his mind over and over again.
“You are safe here” he heard a gentle voice. She reminded him of – no! His fingers curled around the bed sheet. Fabric, soft linen. He was in Imladris.
The potion she had given to him must have helped, because he woke up from a dreamless sleep. Yet the greyness persisted and so did the eerie silence. He did not dare to think and live outside of the current moment, fearing the pain it would bring.
Someone was talking to him and he was glad, because it lifted the silence and made him feel less alone. He did not respond at first, it did not even occur to him. But some of the things he heard stuck with him and slowly his mind was filled with new things. There was gossip about daily life in Imladris and the residents of the valley. There was a story about an elf who had apparently had too much of the Dorwinion red and had set out on the endeavour to tame and ride the deer in the forest. He had ended up in the river soon after and then in the care of the healers with a dislocated shoulder. Glaerorn found himself laughing out loud at this and the heavy curtains seemed to lift a little.
He did not know how much later, days or weeks or months, he found himself outside by the waterfall, the warm autumn sun was shining on his face and he listened to the water and felt more whole and almost content. Out of the darkness of his mind came a thought, that there had been something he had enjoyed doing, his hands felt empty. The elf with the gentle voice gave him his harp, which had survived the assault with but a few scratches.
The young elf sat by the waterfall, face pale, his shaking fingers tracing the intricately carved patterns, holding the instrument like a friend. And he wept.
Music came slowly back to him. His fingers seemed to know what they were doing but as soon as his thoughts caught up with it, the melody was lost to him. Where he had heard the beginnings of a tune in the water or a chord in the wind in the trees before, there was now silence. Then one day it was raining and he sat on a balcony, listening, and soon found himself playing a familiar melody. One he had learned from his father. The thought was painful, reminded him of his loss, but the music was soothing and he found he could endure the pain in this way. The heavy fog seemed to be washed away a little by the rain and the strings of his harp and the dampness on his cheeks and he did move into his own little room after that day, leaving the constant care of the healers.
He began to seek out the other inhabitants of the valley, trying to find out what his life could be like, now. It felt like he had to drag himself up out of a swamp by his hair alone – impossible, when he thought about it, but looking back he still saw some progress (to his own amazement). He found himself feeling freezing cold suddenly sometimes, even standing close to the fire in the Hall of the same name. But he also felt warmth and life, when he became engaged in a discussion with one of his new acquaintances or when he played a well know tune on the harp, enjoying how others danced to it, or when he was unable to keep his feet still when he heard other musicians play and he found himself dancing before he knew it.
He felt lost and alone among the many Noldorin Lords and Ladies at times, wishing greatly for some kind of mentor to guide him, as his parents had done. And even if he managed to play old songs, when he listened for the music in the world he found only pain and no new tune would make its way into his fingers and the harp strings stayed silent in those times or even rang loud in an unpleasant tone. His healing had begun, but only just.
