Chapter 12

“I talked to Círdan.”

Elros entered the darkening room and kicked the door shut, an act signifying either frustration or tiredness. He dropped a couple of half-rolled maps onto a chair as he passed it, heading towards the table on which a wine jug and a pair of goblets normally stood, to find the jug had been replaced by a slender miruvor jar instead. He nodded without questioning the substitution and poured an amount of the clear liquid into one of the small cups laid out beside it.

After taking two or three sips he turned his attention to his brother, who was sitting near the window, Laslech on the floor at his feet. Elros gave the dog a concerned look. Amongst all the other final choices he was attempting to deal with, he would have to make time to decide her future, too.

“I told him it might make everyone’s life a lot easier if he left things like your manners and your interesting dress sense for Gil-galad to deal with. After all, he is ultimately responsible for you. You might want to watch your tongue though, it makes it harder for Gil to sympathise if he has to keep excusing you….”

“He insulted Maglor,” Elrond interrupted evenly. “He said we were badly raised. I don’t have to accept that. Even Ereinion said he went too far.”

Elros was quiet. He would have thought twice about defending Maglor, but Elrond’s loyalty was a knife-edged flame that put his own ambivalence to shame. Maglor had stood between them and death on a number of occasions, and Elrond certainly would not be the one to forget it. He tiredly wondered what else Círdan had not seen fit to mention, then turned to his primary concern. “Elrond, about Glorfindel…?” he asked, not even sure how to word the query.

Elrond finally turned to look at him, and favoured him with a slightly satisfied smile. “Oh, that. That wasn’t me, that was all Ereinion’s fault.”

Elros gave him the expected look of doubt verging on disbelief. “I was told you encouraged Glorfindel into doing something – what was the word? – ill-conceived. Or is that two words?”

“Hyphenated,” Elrond responded. “And I didn’t do anything of the sort. Cirdan and I were having a…discussion about whether he had the right to tell Glori what to do. I made the point that I was Turgon’s heir, well, one of them anyway, so Ereinion was inspired to add his five words, which were that, as High King, he would decide Glori’s future.”

Elrond paused for effect, his eyes sparkling with mischief, then went on. “It’s outside my experience, but I’d think it a bad idea to remind your new lover he has to answer to you outside of the bedroom as well. Glori didn’t take too well to it. He interrupted us, which he never does, told Ereinion he was actually free to swear allegiance where he chose, and then chose me. I think,” he added, studying his fingernails judiciously, “I think Ereinion made him very angry.”

Elros dropped down into the opposite chair, and sipped his drink. “I always manage to miss all the excitement,” he remarked, before raising a questioning brow as he finally took in his brother’s appearance.

Elrond was wearing scarlet, so dark it was almost black, in the form of leggings and a softly draping overtunic, under which he wore a white shirt made of some filmy fabric. His waist length hair was caught back from his face with a pair of ruby-studded mithril clasps, and it tumbled and flowed, fine, sparkling and unconfined, over his shoulders and down his back.

“I didn’t know you had been invited this evening,” Elros observed, frowning slightly. “I wonder if that’s quite the right hairstyle, though? I know it’s meant to be informal, but...”

“Invited?” Elrond gave him an expressionless look that was highly expressive. “For some reason Ereinion never invites me anywhere if he has the choice.”

“Can’t imagine why not,” Elros responded blandly, sounding more than a little like their royal cousin.

Elrond shot a glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Elros looked tired, however, and whatever retort had been on his tongue died unuttered. Instead, he asked, “Invited where, by the way?”

“Gil invited my new councillors to spend an hour or two with us, just getting acquainted. We’re just going to drink a little wine, exchange a few pleasantries…”

Elrond nodded. “No, I wouldn’t expect to be on the guest list for something like that, luckily. It sounds dreadful. Shouldn’t you be getting ready, then? I assume it’s pre-dinner?”

Elros nodded, taking another sip of the potent contents of the cup. “Just want to finish this, clear my head of the remnants of the day, then I’ll change and leave.” He gazed out at the darkening garden, thought for a moment, then turned his attention back to his brother.

“Was there some reason you wanted me to hurry?” he asked mildly. The black haired Elf, whom he vaguely remembered from the time before Lindon, had not yet arrived in the garden, but would almost certainly appear within the next few minutes. Elrond looked suitably blank, confirming his suspicions. Confusion would have been more convincing, though he decided not to mention this.

He got up, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, trying to loosen the tightly knotted braids a little, and favoured his twin with a light kick as he passed. “Made peace with him, did you?” he asked, placing the empty cup on the table.

“Have no idea what you mean,” Elrond retorted, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Medium height, black hair, memorable backside…?”

“Actually, I hadn’t really noticed the backside,” Elrond interrupted. “I just enjoy talking to him, not ogling his body. I’ll remember to look.”

“You do that,” Elros agreed, turning quickly and leaving the room before Elrond noticed the sudden rush of moisture to his eyes. He would never see the outcome of this relationship, if there was one. There would be letters, of course, but not his twin’s unpredictable response to questions like these, nor the opportunity to estimate his mood and intentions by his choice in clothing, the way he wore his hair…..

He went into his room, shut the door, and leaned back against it with his eyes closed against the tears. Not for the first time, he stood alone and cursed the masters of their fate softly and fluently, using words he had learned from the hardened Elves who had followed Maedhros in his other life, in the time before the pavilion on the beach.

The small reception hall close to the main entrance of the Palace was a plain, drafty room with long windows which looked out onto a grass covered courtyard. It was simply furnished, having little to recommend it other than a large fireplace and, owing to its central position, was normally used for quick, informal gatherings.

On this occasion, however, it had been transformed. Heavy drapes were drawn against the chill wind which had resumed howling after a day’s pause, and brightly coloured rugs, imported from the East coast, were strewn across the floor. Informal seating, arranged to best encourage light conversation, had been placed within reach of the fire’s warmth. Earlier, unobtrusive servants had passed back and forth with wine and selections of pastries and small, candied delicacies. The room was empty now, save for a large, dark haired Elf who was leaning back in a chair, wine cup in hand, gazing into the fire.

The assembled company had been an unlikely combination of Elves, Men, and a single Half-elf, everyone attempting to look and sound at their ease, most of them failing quite dismally. They had sat talking and smiling and longing for the dinner hour and freedom.

The Men were those who had been selected, after much debate amongst the Second-born, to be the councillors who would accompany and advise the new King of Númenor. The Elves were represented by Círdan, Gil-galad, three of his senior advisors – and Glorfindel, whom Gil-galad had insisted attend. The golden warrior, he declared expansively over lunch, needed to expose himself to as many new experiences and people as were made available to him by his presence in Lindon. He should regard it as an aid towards deciding his future.

At Glorfindel’s look of pure horror he had grinned cheerfully, saying, “You need to have more faith in yourself than that. I’ll be there, you’ll be fine. Just sip some wine, look devastatingly attractive, and smile.”

The Half-elven representative and ostensive reason for this gathering, Elros, son of Eärendil, had moved with trained ease from one guest to another, sitting sometimes to talk a while, the friendly, personable smile on his face belying the tension that could be discerned in his eyes. The Elves and Men were strangers to one another, the High King was present, the Men, in some instances, had barely met, and he was expected to be the mortar to bind them all together.

All told it had been an interminable few hours for all concerned.

The guests, both Elves and Men, had long since departed for dinner and their quarters, seeking rest in preparation for what was likely to be a late night on the morrow. Gil-galad, however, after a light dinner, had found himself restless and unable to settle, and decided to go for a walk. On his way to the main entrance he paused at the door to the reception room where he had earlier helped Elros entertain his guests. He found it was currently in the process of being returned to order, all traces of previous social activity, in the form of cups and plates, were being removed, along with the extra chairs.

A sudden desire for solitude struck him, something not afforded by his private apartments where he was always ‘at home’ and available to his councillors, Glorfindel and several relatives as a matter of course. On a whim he instructed that the fire be built up and that one of the wine flagons be left. He was surprised to discover that it was still full. After the servants had finished their work and departed, he settled in a chair close to the fire, where he sat watching the flames as he sipped his wine and listened to the rising wind and let his thoughts roam free.

~*~*~*~*~

Fire put him in mind of Glorfindel, who had gone off into the cold to check on his horse. Gil had seen him sit and gaze into the heart of a blaze in similar manner – like yet unlike, as there seemed to be an air of quiet determination about him at such times. He was learning not to be afraid of fire, Elrond had told him, displaying barely concealed amazement that the question had even needed to be asked.

The reasons that drew him to Glorfindel with a strength lacking in previous attachments were complex. There was, obviously, that blonde beauty and warm nature, but, less apparently, there was the echo of familiarity, a sense that here was another child of privilege who knew how it felt to lack self belief. The contrast between them lay in their responses, in the opposing faces they showed to the world, yet it was the shy, tentative Glorfindel who had responded to affection with warmth and openness, enticing Gil-galad to join him, return caring with tenderness.

Kingship had found him far too young, he mused, draining the cup and reaching down to refill it. He had barely reached his majority when Gondolin fell. The crown had meant and continued to mean fighting, and before he was anything else Gil-galad, Orodreth’s son, was a warrior, bred for it, trained to it from earliest youth. On the day when word came that the Hidden City had, indeed, been found and had fallen and he was the last hope of his family, he had understood that he no longer fought for the warriors under him, or the haven where he lived, but for everyone.

The pressure of being responsible for holding all this together - the remnant of the Exiles, the refugees from doomed settlements, everyone who looked to him for leadership, for strength, was at times all but overwhelming. However, he soon discovered that opportunities to ease his tensions, warm his bed, which had been few and far between under Círdan’s strict rules and control, abounded for a young and highly attractive monarch who appeared friendly, outgoing, and immensely likable.

If he looked deep enough into the fire he could almost see them, faces, bodies, entering and leaving his life, almost interchangeable. He indulged himself discreetly when time and circumstance allowed. There was no sense of commitment; his lovers amused his leisure, kept him calm and focused, yet they had no hold on his soul. They were, quite literally, out of sight, out of mind.

He drank absently, his thoughts making tenuous links, sliding from topic to topic, always returning to Glorfindel, he of the golden hair and clear blue eyes, young-seeming and somehow innocent despite his years. Glorfindel of the lean, muscular body, the sweet mouth. Glorfindel, the hero who had fought at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad when he, Gil, had still been a child. Fighting in a battle where another King had fallen, another been made.

The shifting of a log in the fireplace brought Gil-galad back to the moment and he leaned forward, resisting a wave of giddiness, and used the poker to rearrange the wood more productively. He noticed the goblet was almost empty again and wondered for a moment if he had had enough, then, shrugging, took the opportunity to fill it before resuming his contemplation of the dancing flames.

He never allowed anyone too close, of course. No one saw the royal orphan, left to walk as best he could in the footprints of the larger than life heroes who had worn the crown before him, and trying to hide his feelings of inferiority and inadequacy behind a veneer of straightforward common sense and bland good humour. He wanted, more than anything, to be a good King, the King that, after all this blood and pain, people deserved, but he had scant faith in his ability.

He hid, knowing his responsibilities, knowing the terrible mistakes that had been committed before, knowing it was up to him to see they were never repeated. Determined that no one would discover how horribly afraid he was that he would fail, as Turgon, Fingon and Fingolfin all in their turn had failed. He repeated their names aloud and, because he was alone, raised his cup to them, toasting them in red wine and firelight, those great ones whom he had been asked to excel.

His thoughts wandered back obliquely to shining blonde hair, hanging like a cloak about him as a warm mouth kissed a path down his chest, and a low though light voice murmured to him, telling him what no other had before, that he was beautiful, his body perfect, but he drew back from this image and instead tried to imagine surrendering emotionally to the owner of that voice, that mouth.

He wondered how it would feel, sharing the secrets of his heart, admitting to his loneliness as a child, his conviction that he would never make half the King his predecessors had, despite their uniform untimely ending. Even more, could he reach down more deeply still, confide his resistance to the idea of a match that would produce the much needed heir? A reluctance that went to the very core of who he was – not the King, not the warrior, not the advisor or decision maker, himself, Ereinion.

He refilled the cup with an unsteady hand, noting with surprise that the flagon was almost empty and that he was probably drunk. Well, it was a rare enough event, he decided. He settled back in the chair, returned his by now less than focused gaze to the fire, and attempted to pursue his line of thought further.

Being alone was a situation of long familiarity. The desire for a confidante was completely at odds with an upbringing that had refused him the right to weakness, to error. Furthermore he had an uneasy certainty that to say the word would make it so, that to admit to his lack would make it real and binding, not just on him but upon all those to whom he was responsible. Therefore, in the ways that mattered, he had long since chosen to walk alone.

He wondered how being alone would affect Elrond when Elros left for Númenor, a choice made for reasons known only to his cousins and the Valar. But then Elrond, unlike him, would have Glorfindel – what did he call him? Glori? Hazily, he considered Glorfindel, who needed closeness as plants needed water and sunlight. If he could not permit himself to supply the required closeness, would Glorfindel not seek it where he could? Unbidden, Elrond’s face, full-lipped, grey-eyed, erotically enticing, swam before his eyes.

To that there was no answer, simply another question. Yes, the sex was incredible, but could he accept this golden gift waiting to be cherished and savoured, whose fire could, if allowed, warm him and light the hidden places of his heart? Dare he allow the proffered love to soothe the hurt of loss, hold the frightened child within close, stand, brave and glowing, a shield against the dark, be his courage, fight monsters for him – allow him to be weak? Draining his cup, he wondered if it were possible for a King’s life to be more than duty and sacrifice. Círdan, he decided, nodding his head conclusively, would certainly never agree with that.

Elrond waited at least ten minutes before leaving his rooms, moving with what he hoped was easy nonchalance. Laslech followed him out, looking with deep suspicion at the darkening garden. The wind had risen again, and she found the sounds of rattling shutters and thrashing branches disquieting. She was accustomed to Erestor’s presence and the morning’s misadventure had taught her to let him alone until he was finished. She went, instead, to lie under the tree where Elrond often sat to read.

Faced with the problem of controlling unbound hair in the worsening weather, Elrond chose the shelter of a small thicket of lavender, regretting the vanity that had made him leave his hair loose on this wind tossed night. He resisted the temptation to hold onto it, trying to preserve some dignity and sophistication, but he doubted that wild and unruly looked particularly desirable either.

Erestor’s preparation for his nightly routine had been less thorough than usual – no centering and balancing, merely a clearing of the mind, a few deep breaths and a vague dedication of his time to Lord Oromë before beginning the slow, familiar poses. From the corner of an eye he had seen the door open, followed by movement on the edge of his vision which drew his attention to a sight that all but made him lose track of the well-rehearsed sequence.

Elrond was wearing something dark and enticingly loose, and his hair, web-fine, night-dark, was being lifted and tossed around him by the wind like tendrils of smoke. Erestor pivoted on one heel to watch him make his way to one of the more sheltered corners and sink down gracefully, half obscured by waving foliage.

“Good evening, Elrond,” he ventured once he was fairly certain his voice would work. “Your day went well, I hope?” Abandoning the normal flow of the exercise, he found and held a pose that permitted him to face the fey-looking creature seated amidst the lavender, resembling more a forest Elf than the scion of Kings.

Elrond gave him a half smile, his eyes glinting in the gathering dusk. “Well enough, I suppose. I met my brother’s new councillors when they arrived. That was quite interesting.” At Erestor’s raised brow, offered while he moved smoothly up and round in a graceful swirl of black hair before lunging at an unseen centre, he continued, “I had never met Men in a group before. I thought they would be different to us but they weren’t really.” He paused and thought a moment. “They talk less than we do, perhaps.”

Erestor, who had spent time in more mortal settlements than he could remember during his years of gathering information for his company, to be passed to either the King or Maedhros, sometimes both, smiled slightly. He had never thought of Men as being more restrained than Elves before.

“There’s a dinner tomorrow, isn’t there?” He glanced over as he asked this, to be confronted by a glimpse of long, pale throat as the Half-elf tossed his hair back out of his face. There was a flash of jeweled clasps half hidden amidst the dark mass and they glinted and sparkled in the remaining light. Erestor tried not to stare.

“Dinner, yes,” Elrond said after a momentary hesitation. “It’s going to be long and boring, but Ereinion’s set on giving Elros a good farewell. Glorfindel and I will be sitting with the Men, apparently.”

Erestor made some vague sound of acknowledgement as he bypassed approximately a third of his usual routine in an effort, for probably the first time since he had learnt it, to get it finished and out of the way. He noted, coming up from a backward bend that had his hair brushing the ground, that Elrond had straightened up and was watching him with the same intensity he had been trying to conceal in his own covert glances. Their eyes met for a moment, and the connection that had been there in the morning returned, with increased intensity.

Ignoring the protest of his back and upper thighs, Erestor repeated the motion, increasing the arch so that his head all but touched the ground. Straightening, he held the final posture for a good five heartbeats less than required before pressing his hands together at chest height, palms inward and sinking slowly to the ground in an attitude of kneeling rest.

Elrond, sitting with his arms wrapped loosely round his drawn up knees, surveyed him with amused curiosity. “Where’s the rest of it?” he asked, the wind catching at his musical voice, making him sound further off than he was, for Erestor had deliberately come to rest close to the lavender thicket.

Erestor bit back delighted laughter. So, despite appearing to ignore him, the Princeling had been watching well enough to have learned his routine. “It’s been a long day,” he offered, still kneeling as he reached up to release his hair from the knot that held it back from his face. He smiled into the grey eyes. “And the company offered is more to my taste than a routine that I’ve repeated twice daily for most of my adult life.”

“You were born into one of the Companies then?” Elrond asked him, curious. “I remember seeing you, of course. Elros mentioned he had an idea you answered to Gildor.”

“Not born, no,” Erestor answered, his fingers busy braiding hair. “I came from Nargothrond originally. After it fell I joined one of the Companies. I had training as a scout and they thought I could be useful. My family died in the assault, I had nowhere else to go…”

Elrond, who had lived his entire life thus far surrounded by similar stories of destruction and relocation, nodded. He took a deep breath, trying to settle the flutter of nervous excitement in his stomach, and moved closer to Erestor, saying in a slightly breathless voice, “Can I help you with your hair? I should have knotted mine – the wind grows wilder by the minute.” He didn’t wait for a response, reaching out instead to carefully separate an ebony tress into three strands which he began braiding.

Erestor’s mind swung free into some empty space that swallowed words, thoughts, common sense. He clutched frantically at the last comment he could respond to, reminding himself yet again that this was the King’s cousin, that he had already decided this was no safe road to travel. “I spoke to your brother three, maybe four times in those days,” he said, pleased to hear his voice sounded smooth and relaxed. “The King was always keen for news. I wasn’t allowed contact with you, for some reason. And all the Companies answer to Gildor Inglorion in the end, one way or another.”

Elrond looked up from his almost completed task, and smiled wickedly. “Maedhros never trusted me to be discreet. He kept outsiders well away from me. I can’t imagine why.”

They were so close that, despite the wind, Erestor felt the warmth of sweet breath against his cheek when the Half-elf spoke, and caught, again, the faint scent of violets. His senses seemed heightened; he was very aware of the sound of the wind, the creaking of branches, a shutter thudding regularly somewhere in the distance. It was almost full dark now, the only light coming from the open door of the apartment. He could feel the grass beneath him, the way his body tingled from exercise and undeniable rising desire. Their eyes met, held, then Elrond dropped his gaze lower, to Erestor’s lips. Neither of them moved for a moment, then the Half-elf leaned forward and his lips brushed Erestor’s, withdrew, then returned. With no more thought than he would have given to drawing a breath, Erestor reached out a hand, cupped a smooth cheek and chin, and claimed the offered mouth.

It was only after his tongue had parted those soft, full lips that Erestor realised what he was doing, by which stage the idea of stopping was almost a foreign concept. He reached an arm around Elrond’s firm, slender body, drawing him closer as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against smooth pressure before twining, exploring, tasting, in a kiss that began in uncertainty and ended in perfection. Elrond’s arms went round him slowly, and their bodies closed the small distance between them and blended seamlessly.

Erestor ran his fingers through hair that felt as soft and fine as it looked and, as Elrond’s grip on his shoulder and back tightened, he probed deeper with his tongue whilst using his weight to move them slowly back and down, with some vague intention of lying on the grass.

What might have followed remained in the realm of fantasy as Laslech, forgotten by both, suddenly started up, ears pricked and, with a welcoming bark, charged past them, heading for the open door. Elrond, startled, broke the kiss, drawing back, his eyes wide, his breathing quick. “Elros,” he said by way of explanation, struggling to his feet, pushing hair out of his face and looking painfully young and unsure of himself. “I must go. I’m sorry, I…”

Erestor rose too, reaching a hand for the Half-elf’s arm, but let it drop as he realised the retreat had less to do with the likelihood of them being found together than with Elrond’s own confusion about what had just happened. Common sense came back and kicked, hard, and Erestor straightened up and nodded. “Yes, of course,” he heard himself saying. “It grows late anyway. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

Elrond, already halfway to the door, looked back over his shoulder and nodded. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. “Morning. I won’t be here tomorrow night.” Retreating inside he closed the door, leaving Erestor alone with the night, the wind and his thoughts.

~*~*~*~*~