-Note- Hmm…the style's a little different than anything I've tried so far. This could probably be considered AU, because it takes place in modern earth. I don't think Tolkien meant for his Middle Earth to cross with ours. And yes, I'm still having problems with formatting. I had to go in and hit return every time I wanted a new paragraph or a blank line between paragraphs. Gah! I'm not sure why each paragraph isn't indenting. I'm very, very sorry!

-Archival- (18 January 2005) Ask me for permission, please.

-Disclaimer- All of Tolkien's characters, places, etc. belong to him. And I'm not making money from writing fan fiction. Goodness, no.

A Friday

It was Friday, thank the Valar.

Friday, and he was going to slip out of the office early, go back to his townhouse, and relax. Preferably, with a good book- the fall of Numenor, perhaps.

He pulled the zipper on his briefcase shut with relish, took a last look out of the windows of his corner office, to the rainy sky beyond, flicked the light switch, and closed the door behind him.

He ducked through rows of cubicles, past his secretary's empty desk, and hurried to catch the elevator.

The doors were sliding shut, but Glorfindel sprinted the last few steps, (maintaining his dignity and grace, as always) thrust his arm through the gap. The doors halted and moved back, and he walked in, as sagely as he could.

He sighed, glanced at the panel of buttons, and saw that someone had already pressed his floor. Car Park: Ground Level. He turned, and found himself face-to-face with Helen, his secretary. She gaped up at him, color draining from her face as though he were a troll- or balrog.

"Mr.- Mr. Findel, sir!" she stuttered. Glorfindel gave himself a mental shake.

"Hello, Helen," he said smoothly. "Looks like we had the same idea this afternoon." He congratulated himself on his accent. After all these years, rarely interacting with Elves (although he did see Elladan and Elrohir often enough), he still managed to sound like one as he spoke the tongue descended from Westron. It was true. Elves changed little. Though he, Glorfindel, had learned to adapt long ago, after his return to Arda, he was still slow.

Helen shifted an empty coffee thermos from one hand to the other, looking terrified in her kaki pants and bulky sweater. Friday, casual day.

Glorfindel brushed a piece of lint from his suit.

"Yes sir, I-" she stammered.

"Well, I won't speak of this if you won't, he grinned. Quite dashingly, he imagined. She relaxed with an audible whoosh.

"Thank you, sir. I…appreciate this."

He shrugged. A sweet girl, only a few years out of university. New to her job, stunned and horrified to be working under one of the highest-ranking men in the company.

The floor counter was dropping. From 72 to 54. Time to strike up a casual conversation, he decided.

"I am looking forward to going home with a good book. In this dreadful rain…" He grimaced. "You?" he had long ago learned to omit the "my lady" or "my lord" at the end of a question, but the words hung on his lips nonetheless.

"Oh yes sir. I'm going to my flat as well. Pack up my father's things."

The floor counter had gone from 54 to 3.

"Is he no longer living with you?" Glorfindel asked.

Helen stared ahead at the elevator doors, almost as if she were trying to will them open.

"No. He died."

"Oh." He stumbled there, for a moment. "Please accept my deepest condolences, Helen. I was not aware."

The bell sounded, the doors opened. She continued to stare very hard, and Glorfindel received the impression that she was trying very hard not to cry.

Time to change the subject, then.

"Are you going to the car garage?"

She nodded dully.

"I shall accompany you, then."

They left the elevator, passed past the security desk and lobby, walked through a glass revolving door.

The lot was covered, but Glorfindel could hear the rain pounding on the roof of the floor above. His secretary could not.

She slowed as they passed a concrete column bearing the sign, "A2: PLEASE REMEMBER THE LOCATION OF YOUR VEHICLE", and stopped before a blue, rusted hunk of car that Glorfindel swiftly concluded needed to be put out of its misery.

She smiled weakly. "Thank you, sir."

"Think nothing of it. I am very sorry for your loss."

She nodded again. Awkward silence.

He had just started to leave when she choked out-

"Mr. Findel, what comes after death?"

He stopped abruptly, polished shoes clattered on pavement. The look in his eyes- haunted, accepting, and, she thought, very, very old, immediately made her regret the impulsive question.

"After death?" he repeated, his outgoing manner- or façade? - dropping momentarily. "Rest, peace." He held her gaze. "Healing."

She nodded, unlocked her car door.

"It is not something to fear. However, dying…can be quite another story. Or so I have gathered."

Then, he was smiling once more, but Helen could not forget the look of him an instant before- certainty. As if he knew through experience.

"Goodbye, Helen. I'll see you next week."

"Goodbye, sir," she managed, car keys dangling limply from her fingers.

He left. His dress shoes, which had made such a noise when he had halted were now silent. His golden, shoulder-length hair fanned out behind him in the breeze of a passing car. He turned a corner, and was gone.

And Helen, alone, climbed into her car, wondering, not for the first time, just who her boss was.