Reunion

Knock knock.

The sound of knuckles rapping on wood seemed out of place in the house. It was small and neat and comfortable, much like a hobbit-hole, only it was not a hole, did not belong to a hobbit and the ceiling was not five feet high. It was not a place where one expected visitors.

There were several rooms which branched off the corridor, all of them filled to the brim with furniture, but only one of them was occupied. Glorfindel sat at a large oak desk, quill flying on parchment, pausing occasionally to dip it in an inkwell. The stroke of the quill moved precisely, diligently, carelessly. Drops of ink scattered onto the parchment, onto his pale arms, onto the piles of paper he had moved out of the way.

Papers were heaped around the room, lying here and there in untidy piles, some crumpled, some half-finished, some with strange drawings on them. The furniture—a table and chair, a black cabinet and a large bookshelf—seemed to cramp up the already-small room.

Glorfindel was so immersed in his work that he did not—or pretended not to—hear the knock.

Seconds passed.

Knock knock.

Silence.

Knock knock knock. His visitor was becoming impatient.

Glorfindel was definitely pretending to ignore the sound now.

Knock knock knock knock bang crash bang bang.

The golden-haired Elf looked up from his work with amusement. "Who's there?"

Silence for a moment. Then: knock knock.

Glorfindel frowned. "Who's there?" he repeated again, louder.

Knock knock. Silence. Knock... knock knock... knock... Silence. Knock knock knock... knock.

He knew that signal well enough. Glorfindel laughed. "How am I supposed to know who 'I' is, dear guest standing outside the door impatiently, about to break his knuckles? By all means, Ecthelion, come in!"

A series of knocks greeted his response. Glorfindel translated it from Morse code easily enough.

L-O-C-K-E-D.

"Is it really?" Glorfindel asked. Reluctantly, he abandoned the report he was writing, waded his way through the sea of papers, out into the corridor then finally to the front door. He unbolted the door, and pulled it open.

"Old habits die hard, my friend," he said, apologetically.

After thousands of years, Ecthelion of the Fountain greeted him with typical aloofness. "Glorfindel of the Golden Flower," he said coldly. "I have gone to the trouble of travelling thousands of miles to Tol Eressëa of all places, with a plan of surprising you with my unanticipated entrance. Why, then, was I left standing outside your door, only being able to communicate in Morse code? Why in Arda is your door locked? This is Avállonë, not Imladris or wherever you have been living for the last few thousand years!"

Glorfindel gave him a half-amused smile. "Firstly, Ecthelion, you should know better than to attempt to surprise me. I remember you tried back in Gondolin where you planned to empty a bucket of water on my head—"

"Itarillë's plan," interrupted Ecthelion, turning vaguely pink.

"—and if you can remember, you upended it on not only the Lord of Gondolin himself, but on several of his most prized maps and battle plans—"

"—which is how I managed to gain myself a seat in his councils—"

"—but only after you were confined to house arrest for three weeks—"

"—two weeks—"

"—and you had to apologise most profusely afterwards and redraw all the plans you had ruined—"

"—thus I came to know everything about the war," Ecthelion finished smugly.

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow at him. Ecthelion raised one right back.

Then the two friends were laughing and embracing, their voices reaching the heavens. And Glorfindel ushered his long-lost friend inside, and closed the door and locked it. Ecthelion promptly unlocked it, which caused Glorfindel to apologise again.

"Why do you do it, my friend? What is there to fear in Aman, of all places?"

"It is but a habit," Glorfindel replied. "The Third Age of Middle Earth was full of fear and oppression. We locked all the doors at night and only opened them well into the morning, in fear of the spies of Sauron or, worse, the Nine. There was the matter of Elrond's chief counsellor, Erestor. You may not have heard of him, but he is a most inquisitive Elf. Snooping around here and there, entering my room to see whether I had finished that report he had assigned me—"

"—which you hadn't—"

"—he only gave me two days! I had to guard my room from him. Now he lives just a few blocks away, down the street. Perhaps one day he will come in and try to steal my books—do not laugh, it has happened before. When I demanded them back, I found them so scribbled and filled with notes that the original text was barely readable."

Ecthelion laughed. "What adventures you had, my friend! Though I must say..." He looked around the room. "Your house is not very ... Elvish, is it? Is this a style you have picked up from Middle-Earth?"

"The Periannath have houses in this style," said Glorfindel. "No doubt you have heard of them. Frodo Baggins—"

"Yes, yes," said Ecthelion impatiently. "Though I do not know why they are more important than say, Lord Turukáno, or you and I. We fought evil head-on, while he skulked—"

"None of that here, Ecthelion! The Periannath were no doubt the saviours of Middle-Earth. Anyway, as I was saying, they have delightful houses to live in, and I have decided to fashion mine after their style."

"Why them, Glorfindel? Why not the style of the Elf-lords of old? Large marble hallways, stairs and banisters, arching ceilings, intricate tapestries, courtyards and gardens, rooms and rooms waiting to be unlocked. You have money enough."

For the first time, Glorfindel's gaze fell. "I cannot, my friend. You know that. It is too painful."

"Fair Ondolindë," Ecthelion breathed.

Glorfindel's smile returned, if slightly weaker than before. "Just be glad I did not fashion my house after the manner of the Dwarves."

Ecthelion grinned.

"That would be a nightmare indeed."