But to the Atani I will give a new gift…

“It is one with this gift of freedom that the children of Men dwell only a short space in the world alive, and are not bound to it, and depart soon whither the Elves know not. Whereas the Elves remain until the end of days, and their love of the Earth and all the world is more single and more poignant therefore, and as the years lengthen ever more sorrowful. For the Elves die not till the world dies…”

-Of The Beginning Of Days, The Silmarillion

There was a man. He was not like other men. He was wiser; he was so old sometimes, so old. And yet, sometimes he was like a baby. This strange shifting between old and young, worldly and naïve, was in all men…maybe it was something else that drew me to him then, made me stay. The rapt understanding in his eyes when he looked at me? I hadn’t been understood by anyone…in so long…

We would sit by the hearth and I would tell him things. I told things I never told anyone before. The shadows would grow longer and longer until there was nothing but gloom all around, because midnight always crept up on us too soon. Red highlights would flicker darkly over my skin, over my face, from the fire as I moved: for I would never sit still for very long when I talked. I would stand or pace with deep furrows in my brow, or my eyes would flash as I play-acted some memory from long ago. Only it was rarely play.

I dredged up so many things I had thought forever forgotten in this world, and he helped me remember. Sometimes we -would- both sit, but there would be silence. He would say nothing for hours on end, because he knew I was reaching. Straining hard to reach deep, to reach far, until I could reach no more. Sometimes I found the word, the name, the place, with a gasp and the reward on my lips. He would look up; he knew I’d recovered just a little bit more of myself. Sometimes I did not.

There was a man. He was not like other men. His name was John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and in 1973 I did not visit his grave.

“A cold and wet November dawn
And there are no barking sparrows
Just emptiness to dwell upon.”

The strains of Jenny’s tiny desk radio drifted from the open doorway that lead to the back room. It didn’t matter. George wouldn’t scold the secretary, and neither would Myles, their boss. It was near closing time. No one would be coming in the office. Instead, George finished straightening out his desk so he could go home. Home…

A day calendar rested next to his computer, reading December 16th. He descended upon it, flipped deftly through, and ripped off a thin wad of pages. Now it said December 23rd, 2007, the correct date. He was always forgetting…sometimes he wondered why he even kept it, besides that it had been a gift from Jenny (puppies drooled off of every page). But everyone else in the notary had one.

“I fell into a winter slide
And ended up the kind of kid who goes down chutes too narrow
Just eking out my measly pies.”

Ahh well. He carelessly tossed the spent days into the waste bin. He did what he could. With what he had.

“But I learned fast how to keep my head up 'cause I
Know there is this side of me that
Wants to grab the yoke from the pilot and just
Fly the whole mess into the sea.”

He was fairly tall, George, and he had a long build, and a strong one. His skin was the sort that couldn’t be categorized: it couldn’t be tanned, and it wasn’t pale; it had a golden cast to it, and was softness stretched over grace. The same softness lurked around very clear blue eyes. He often smiled, grinned, even laughed; those moments that he did were pure tribute to whatever god declared such a sincerely joyful thing as a smile could exist. The male’s yellow-gold hair was longer than an ordinary short cut. It was medium length, to draw attention away from his ears. His birth defect. A flaw nearly everyone he met was too -- not polite to mention, exactly. But thrown off. It was different and uncomfortable, and therefore most men and women pretended they didn’t even notice, or pointedly ignored them if they did become visible for a moment.

“So, um.” Jenny appeared at the doorway -- not in the direct center, but more to the side, leaning on it in almost a cling. She was a pretty little thing, even when she hesitated. She clearly wanted to say something. “Well, Merry Christmas, George,” she said. “I’m here for a while still, have some work to catch up on. But you’re leaving now, right?”

Her lingering gaze seemed to -want- something from him almost. He looked away. “Yeah, just leaving.”

Almost as if the words had been prepared, she launched into, “I know your family is all out of town, George. I was wondering if you wanted… if you would have Christmas dinner with us. Mother would love to have you, I know it, and…”

But George was shaking his head, although he offered a smile because he did not want to hurt the girl’s feelings. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t be spending Christmas alone. I’m going to a friend’s.” She still looked doubtful. He didn’t blame her -- he never talked about any friends, ever. But why did he feed her that lie? Why did he refuse that friendly, generous, kind offer at all? His pride? It was to protect his pride, a little. It was also for himself. To protect himself. And last, to protect her.

“I’ll see you,” he told her. He was never good at apologies, or goodbyes. So picking up his coat from the rack, he took it by the collar and whirled it around his form, shrugging it the rest of the way on with his shoulders. The material was dark gray, or maybe it was black a little faded. It was long; it fitted him well.

“See you…George…” replied Jenny softly. But the last of his fingers had already slipped away and out of sight from where they had held the front door until it was only an inch from shut.

Outside, the rain beat down harder on New York City streets. It would turn to freezing, soon.

“Of course I was raised to gather courage from those
Lofty tales so tried and true and
If you're able I'd suggest it 'cause this
Modern thought can get the best of you.”

He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, and his shoulders and neck automatically hunched a little, just like any man who subjected to such elements. His easy steps turned to the right, heading up the street. There was a bus stop there, and he would catch one to his apartment.

“This rather simple epitaph can save your hide your falling mind
Fate isn't what we're up against -- there's no design, no flaws to find
There's no design no flaws to find.”

John Ronald Reuel asked me something once. The question made me pause, because it wasn’t anything like our normal topics. This happened near the beginning of our partnership -- friendship was too simple a word to describe what we had -- and the man had been quite young. I had been walking away from Ronald. And then:

“Can I see you…see the real you, as an elf, just once?”

I stopped.

Can I see how you really are. Just once. Just once. Just once.

Ronald probably thought I was going to turn around then, because I started to, but then didn’t; I became still again. I looked back at the young man over my shoulder, and finally smiled gently. “But you can, anytime you like. I am Glorfindel forever and always.”

“But I learned fast how to keep my head up 'cause I
Know I got this side of me that
Wants to grab the yoke from the pilot and just
Fly the whole mess into the sea.”

The bus had come and gone already, minutes earlier than it was supposed to. George tilted his head down and away from the driving rain. It was going to be a long, cold, and sodden walk.