Chapter Text
He was falling and burning, in those few seconds before things must have shifted. You would think it would take longer, but Glorfindel had only blinked once. His eyes were open when he hit the ground.
The darkness that followed, the darkness he had prepared for all his life, as any warrior is bound to do, was just as short as the fall. The pain just as sharp. Every bone gave way for the yearning his body had for the earth.
But a pair of nimble fingers graspes the end, makes a knot. The thread, once cut, was to be spun again.
Someone says something though he can't hear for the ringing in his ears. He tries to open his eyes but his body is slow and the sun is bright, it smells of fir and pine and damp earth and a creek is running somewhere to his right. Sunspots dance behind his eyelids. Someone says something but he can't make out the words.
A finger pokes at his face and as he strains to open his eyes, a shriek escapes it. Well, not the finger, but the girl the finger belongs to. A human girl, she couldn't be more than 10. Eyes wide and mouth quickly clamped shut, she looks like she's ready to bolt.
Someone shouts something Glorfindel can understand, by this point, is in a language unknown to him and another girl, about the same age, a little more downhill, emerges from behind a thicket of blackthorns. She's followed by a boy, younger by a few years, maybe 6 or 7. His cheeks still cling to that baby-fat and his hand is firmly held in the girl's, though he tried to shimmy away from time to time. Both see Glorfindel at the same time. They freeze.
The boy asks something and both the girls snort and say something in a joking tone. They meet halfway with the girl that found him and begin to loudly and frantically whisper.
That gives Glorfindel enough time to realize he's half buried in the dirt, like children bury each other in the sand, at the beach, shallow and uneven. Over him grows moss and lichen so he must have been there for some time, though a knee pokes out, his head, thank Iluvatar, and his right palm, upturned. In it sits a ceramic bowl stained brown by a liquid that had long since evaporated. He goes to sniff it and the children give a short squawk. He sighs, smiles his most gentle smile and tries in westron:
"I am Laurefindelë." His voice is scratchy and his throat stings. He moves his hand to place it over his heart to mild concern from the kids. The bowl falls. They do not look like they get it. He tries in sindarin. No luck there either, but the repetition of his name and the motion of his hand must have clued them in enough.
"Eu îs Mălina." The girl that first found him says, placing her hand on her chest, and the other one frowns, uncertain, but does the same.
"Smaranda."
The little boy follows and he learns he's named "Călin".
He inclines his head and the children must be pleased enough with this display to come closer. Smaranda asks Mălina something, pointing at the circle Glorfindel sits in the middle of, dug about half a meter down, like a channel, though full of greenery by now, probably favouring the dampness. Mălina looks somewhere else, embarrassed, confirms, and the other girl sighs, slaps herself moderately hard over her forehead and hops over it.
A sentance is directed at him and Smaranda frowns at his confused expression, displeased, saying something over her shoulder. But the boy, still at her side, smiles at him and enthusiastically waves. They must like that Glorfindel smiles and weakly waves back, for they start to dig with their hands and remove the layer of earth on top of him.
There is a tiredness, deep in his bones, as if the rocks were asked to move. Roots have grown around him, through the gap between his legs, cradling the back of his neck and under the palm of his left hand. Between his fingers, it sprouted and a sapling found it's way to the top, thin and new.
The kids try to break as few roots as they can manage and when they consider it good enough, they start to detangle Glorfindel from the nest of live wood. At first he can bearly move but a look of exasperated reproach from Smaranda, nearly voiced, but cought in time to let the slight fear show through, is enough to convince his fuzzy mind that he can't remain here any longer. He wants to reassure them that danger will not befall them with him here. That he is no danger. But all he can do is smile, gentle and apologetic and try to push himself against the earth and roots.
His muscles ache as he stands up and the children take an instinctive step back.
"Thank you." He says, no less painfully, and with a hand on his chest he bows.
Giggles all around and Mălina makes a comically embellished hand gesture with her courtesy. The others follow, including the boy, taking the end of his long shirt in hand, as the girls did their skirts, which gains another fit of giggles.
Mălina mimes drinking and shrugs, pointing at him and when he nods, surprisingly, she takes his hand as they begin to walk. She swings their hands, not very gently, back and forth as they walk and talk amongst themselves, laughing from time to time and throwing quick glances his way.
It is nearing dawn, but the air is warm and the wind is gentle. The trees sing along with the birds as their branches rustle. There are oak and fir and pine, a combination of various trees, both evergreen and not. When they come upon the creek he's been hearing, they begin to walk along it, stopping from time to time to catch frogs and proudly show them to him and each other. They climb for about ten minutes, and as they arrive at it's spring, they gesture for him to drink. The water is cold and his throat feels as cracked as the earth after drought. He must have drank too greedily for he chokes and coughs.
Smaranda says something and all of them laugh, Călin beginning to cough in imitation. They are making fun of him. Even so, they come and hit his back as he's coughing and laughing along.
They drink too and Mălina tells him something that sounds like an explanation but from the way none of them bother to watch his expression for understanding, it is clear they know he can get only the sentiment. His hand is again taken to be swung back and forth, this time descending.