AN1 - absolutely NO angst in this chapter. 

Chapter 20 - The faces of love

Forlond
The major harbour and commercial centre of Forlindon, was a busy town boasting a highly cosmopolitan population of Elves, Men, and even a small colony of Dwarves. Built at the foot of rolling hills, bordered by farmlands and forest, it was also home to the King’s Fleet, the swift, dark-sailed vessels that patrolled the coastline, protecting shipping from possible piracy and ready to deploy at speed a small force of seasoned warriors as aid against the many enemies wandering leaderless since the end of the Great War.

The port in no way resembled Círdan’s solemnly reverenced, closely guarded Haven at Mithlond, the departure point for those seeking the peace and eternal security of the Undying Lands. Instead, Forlond was a bustle of warehouses and fisheries and all the normal occupations of any costal town. The section of the waterfront not given over to the Fleet offered markets and merchants’ storefronts, usually with the family home around the back, as well as a small selection of taverns and inns, some more respectable than others.

After a pleasant ride that took them through outlying farmlands and densely forested areas, the King’s party arrived at the home of Edhelûr, the aged Telerin referred to as the Master of Forlond, who controlled the harbour and answered to the King for the governance of the town. His residence, set high on the hill, proved to be a large, rambling estate with storerooms and orchards and an extensive vegetable garden.

The house was crowded but Glorfindel, given a room at the back overlooking a wood where the trees still held their bright autumn colours, felt immediately and inexplicably at home. He would have been happy to pass what remained of the morning exploring the grounds, but Gil-galad, who arrived as he was busy putting away the few items of clothing he had brought with him, had other ideas.

Leaving the door open for propriety’s sake, the King strode to the middle of the room and looked around, frowning.

“Manwë's balls, is this the best they could do for you? I’ve seen larger closets.”

The golden warrior, who had long since ceased being troubled by the occasional obscenity, gestured to the window. “It’s cosy, and the view’s wonderful. Anyway, we’ll only be here for two nights, won’t we?”

Gil-galad nodded briefly, still scrutinizing his surroundings. “Yes, and I’m going to feel as though the walls are closing in on me. And that bed looks as though it was made for a Dwarf…”

“You’re surely not thinking of spending the night here?” the blonde asked in disbelief. “The whole house will know by morning, the whole of Lindon an hour after we return home.”

“Aren’t you starting to get a little tired of this overworked caution?” the King asked him with a touch of irritation. ”If they want to gossip, let them. Just ignore it, they’ll soon get bored.”

Glorfindel, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at him seriously. “It isn’t only gossip I’m worried about, Gil. I was a courtier in Gondolin. There’s more involved here than me being over-sensitive as you keep calling it.”

Gil-galad blew out a breath and came to sit beside him. “How I spend my private time, and with whom, is no one’s business but mine…” he began, but stilled when Glorfindel placed a firm hand on his wrist.

“It should be, but it isn’t,” he said calmly. “Círdan plainly disapproves that things are - as they are between us. I think that reaction would be general.” How things really stood between them was not something Gil had so far displayed any need to clarify, but he resisted the urge to mention this.

The King turned to study his face carefully. “What are you saying, exactly?” he asked. “That I should behave like some tragic hero in a song? Are you suggesting I deny my true nature and bind to satisfy Círdan’s urge to see me produce heirs?”

“He might have a point,” the Elf from Gondolin said quietly. ”People accept a liaison between two males if it’s discreet, but in your case they assume a queen and children. It’s the main focus of court politics right now. If you’re interested, the current favourite seems to be Aravilui’s daughter, Heriadlas.”

Gil-galad’s lips tightened briefly, then he placed an arm heavily around Glorfindel’s shoulders and sighed.

“Yes, I know. Look, I won’t deny the need for tact, but binding and creating a family are not for me. This is something people will just have to learn to accept, as I have. As for the succession - I have no intention of dying, but if the need arose I already have a perfectly adequate heir in Elrond. At any rate, I didn’t come here to talk about this,” he added briskly, rising to his feet and pulling his companion up with him. “I have things to see to in town. I thought you might like to come and have a look at the real heart of Lindon.”

~*~*~*~*~

The small group that eventually set out included Master Edhelûr, the King’s senior assistant who was a quiet Sinda named Thenin, and Dalbros who, eager for whatever information he could glean, was elated to be invited. They spent the next few hours visiting communities of net and sail makers, carpenters, weavers and a wide variety of merchants. Gil-galad, who had the good commander’s gift for remembering faces, names and family details, wandered in and out of homes and workshops, talking to everyone. Glorfindel watched, amused, as the King managed to turn an inspection into a much relished visit amongst old friends

When eventually they reached the harbour, Edhelûr led them past two guard posts and down a small incline, coming out just above the pier where the Fleet docked and the ships being made ready by Círdan’s shipwrights for the Secondborn were moored. Having no idea of the numbers involved in the migration, Glorfindel was unprepared for the sight of so many vessels, almost fifty he estimated, built of pale wood and with shimmering green and yellow sails, all riding at anchor, ready to depart.

They had barely dismounted when Círdan came clambering down from a half-completed ship still in the dry dock and, ignoring Gil-galad for the moment, hailed Edhelûr, embracing him in greeting like a brother. He was casually dressed, his hair was tied back like that of an ordinary seaman, and Glorfindel had a sense of finally seeing the aged Elf in his natural element.

A highly animated conversation ensued as Círdan and Edhelûr attempted to explain a new innovation to Gil-galad regarding sail design, and the difficulties of persuading the sail-makers to comply. Glorfindel, who knew little about ships and nothing about sails, was standing off to one side and looking out over the bay when a softly accented voice spoke unsettlingly close to his ear.

“Well met, Twice-born. Do I find you content in this time and place?”

Glorfindel turned slowly, controlling the sense of ice water trickling down his spine, to face the silver-haired, amethyst-eyed Herald of the Valar. Eönwë had joined them so silently that no one had been aware of his arrival. The blonde had never before met one of the Maiar, though he had seen several in his youth in Tirion, and had been taught the correct procedure should he encounter one. He touched his fingers in a circle to his forehead to symbolize unity with the One, then rested his hand over his heart.

“I am well, Lord,” he said levelly, feeling rather than hearing Gil-galad move up behind him, close enough for warm breath to stir his hair. It was like having a wall at his back, and he took a moment to be relieved at not having to cope with the Maia alone. Glorfindel had been taught to regard the beings who were so often the link between Elves and Valar with awed affection, but there was no trace of warmth in Eönwë, nothing to inspire even mild liking.

The Maia inclined his head graciously. “Lord Námo was most generous on your account. I would advise you to make good use of the life he has granted you.”

Glorfindel’s head jerked up sharply at the condescending tone and, with the occasional recklessness that came to him in battle, he retorted, “I honour Lord Námo for granting me a second chance, Lord, but it would make more sense if he had thought to tell me why I was here.”

Behind him, on the edge of hearing, came a soft, gasping laugh from Gil-galad. Long moments passed during which seagulls cried, timbers creaked and half-furled sails flapped sharply, and all the while those cool violet eyes surveyed him thoughtfully, contemplating the enormity of his lack of respect.

“Your determination and veritas were apparently noted,” he was finally informed in the same toneless, emotionless voice. “Some day your experience in confronting the forces of darkness will be called upon again. When the time comes, all will be made clear to you. I can tell you no more.”

Dismissing Glorfindel with a disdainful motion of his shoulder, Eönwë addressed himself to Círdan. “The time grows short,” he said in somewhat more clipped tones. “How much longer do we have to wait before your mariners arrive? All else is in readiness. Further delays are unacceptable.”

Elrond woke disoriented by the unfamiliarity of a warm body nearby and the sound of soft breathing close to his ear. Opening his eyes carefully, he looked around whilst remaining absolutely still. In the dim morning light Erestor’s room was shadowy, the vibrant colours muted though still welcoming. Memory returned, bringing with it the grey emptiness of the previous day. The knot of misery started reforming in his stomach, but then he remembered how the night had ended, and his attention was drawn instead to the figure in the bed beside him.

They had sat holding one another for a time after Erestor had finished telling his story, before stretching out on the bed together, talking of generalities. They had shared a few uncertain, almost chaste kisses, but the day had been long and emotional, and the call of sleep irresistible. Elrond had no idea at what point his eyes had finally lost focus, but he had fallen asleep to the sound of a voice that was smooth as brandy, honey-sweet.

Erestor, who must have drawn the bedcover up and over them at some point before himself falling asleep, was lying on his side, his hair an ink-dark shadow falling across his face and shoulder to pool onto the bed. Elrond watched his own hand move up almost of its own volition to lift the straight black hair away from the sleeping face, and suddenly became aware that he was being watched. With no apparent transition, Erestor had shifted from sleep to awareness and was studying him, his expression gravely thoughtful.

“Good morning,” Elrond said softly, gently tugging a lock of silken hair before allowing it to slide through his fingers.

Erestor’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he leaned up on an elbow, touching the Half-elf’s cheek with light fingers. “Good morning to you,” he said softly. “I should have woken you, but I hadn’t the heart. You slept well?”

Elrond looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you, I felt like a wall of water struck me. Thank you for letting me stay.”

He received an inscrutable look. “You needed to rest, you were worn out. I somehow don’t think you slept the night before, either… And waking up alone is seldom the best way to begin a difficult day.”

“After yesterday it can only get better,” Elrond said wryly.

Erestor raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s been my experience that nothing is ever so bad it can’t get worse,” he said cheerfully. “But at least you don’t have to deal with it on your own now. Whenever you need to talk, I promise to listen.”

He stretched and shook back hair that moved like a fall of silk as he spoke, and their eyes met and held. There was no premeditation, the kiss was something that almost seemed to happen of itself, a movement of heads, a seeking of lips, tentative and exploratory. Then Elrond reached out his arms, drawing Erestor up against him while he deepened the kiss, driven by instincts that moved swiftly from curiosity to desire-laden intent. When they finally paused for breath Erestor watched him for several heartbeats, amber eyes shimmering beneath black lashes. Then, with a small, soft sigh, he relaxed against Elrond, lips parted, and let his head fall back in an unmistakable gesture of surrender.

What followed would afterwards remain tangled in Elrond’s memory, a collage of soft skin, silken hair, husky whispers. Hands investigated the lines of bodies, went further, sought naked flesh, stroked and pressed and clasped. Erestor easily persuaded the Half-elf out of his tunic, unfastening his shirt with dextrous fingers while leaning over in a swathe of hair to place soft kisses upon each newly revealed area of flesh. At the same time his free hand pushed the sleeve of Elrond’s shirt back from his shoulder, his fingers rubbing small, urgent circles against the bared skin.

Elrond, though lacking experience, followed instinct, rolling onto his side and gathering the dark Elf into his arms, kissing him open-mouthed and thoroughly, and feeling heat flood through him at the hungry response of delving tongue and grasping hands. Finally releasing Erestor’s mouth, he tugged at shirt fastenings, breaking at least one, while he offered hot kisses to creamy skin, questing touches of unpracticed fingers. Eventually, with a frustrated hiss, Erestor pulled away from him to kneel up and remove his shirt, dropping it carelessly onto the floor before subsiding bonelessly back onto the bed, his eyes half closed, giving his face a languid, inviting expression.

Unclad, Erestor was quite simply…gorgeous. He was built like a runner, all sleek, unobtrusive muscle under velvet skin, brownish nipples contrasting strongly against his fairness. Elrond, staring, remained unmoving, lost in admiration until strong, slender fingers tangled in his hair, and a whispered, “Yes, of course you can,” answered a question he had not been aware of asking.

He trailed his fingers over yielding flesh, then bent to suck one erect nipple into his mouth, watching as Erestor’s brilliant eyes slowly closed. He worked his tongue over soft skin and peaked hardness, quickly discovering that a sharp flick could draw a response from Erestor akin to the mewling of a kitten, or the soft cry of a bird. It was a sound that somehow seemed to bypass his ears to reach directly to his groin.

Releasing the nipple, he brushed his thumb back and forth across it, watching it harden further in response, feeling the tense heat within him increase at the sensation of swollen wetness under his touch. Turning his attention to its twin, he dipped his head to suckle and nip while his fingers continued to roll and tweak, causing the dark-eyed Elf to give a low, purring moan that made Elrond shiver with desire.

Moving slowly, he kissed a path up Erestor’s long neck, sucking the fair skin hard enough to mark it, before claiming his mouth once more. He kissed Erestor’s cheeks and eyelids, rubbed his lips against the tip of one elegant ear, and was licking the hollow at the base of his throat when Erestor, whose body was beginning to writhe in an instantly recognizable rhythm, reluctantly slowed his movements. Resting a long-fingered hand against Elrond’s cheek, he sighed and then gently pushed. The Half-elf, his eyes dark and not completely focused, looked up questioningly.

“Work,” Erestor explained simply. “If I don’t get up now, I’ll be late… I have to be present for a briefing.”

Elrond stared at him blankly then groaned, dropping his head heavily onto Erestor’s chest. Strong arms went round him and held him for a moment, and a hand stroked his disheveled hair while they both strove to steady their breathing. “Believe me, this is not by choice…” Erestor assured him, before sliding out from under him and trying to sit up. Elrond was faster and reached out for him, catching him by the elbows, but Erestor pulled away with a laughing, if still slightly dazed, shake of his head.

“No, my lord, some of us have to work. I need to dress.” He looked around vaguely as he spoke, as though expecting his room to have changed overnight. While he was distracted, Elrond made a final playful attempt to stop him, catching at his long, black hair as he tried to rise and pulling him back to fall onto the bed. Leaning over Erestor, he held him down by the upper arms, enjoying the way laughter lit his face and knowing that, had he wished to break free, he could have done so with ease.

The fact that Elrond displayed none of the devastated grief that had threatened to consume him the previous night was no surprise to Erestor. A lifetime’s habit of concealed emotions was unlikely to be discarded in one day. He knew the pain was still there, and would have to be faced again when Elrond was alone and undistracted. After a moment’s reflection he decided that he could, after all, afford to be a little late for once.

“What difference will a few minutes make?” the Half-elf was demanding. “Come on, first you have to promise never to call me ‘my lord’ again…”

“You really don’t like that very much, do you?” Erestor wriggled as he spoke, but not as much as he might have. Elrond was looking down at him darkly, and shaking his head.

“You know I don’t like the title,” he said. “No one called me that till I came here – at first it took me a moment to realise I was the ‘lord’ being spoken to…”

Erestor’s eyes flashed amusement. “Believe me, I’m not in the habit of thinking of you as ‘my lord’,” he said dryly. “If I were, the present situation would be totally inappropriate.”

~*~*~*~*~

They left the pier shortly after Eönwë’s arrival. Gil-galad’s obvious dislike for the Maia surprised Glorfindel, who had become accustomed to the King’s habit of masking his opinions of others with an appearance of distant courtesy. In this case he was polite, but there was an edge to his words and he told Círdan he would keep any further questions until they spoke later. His foster father nodded without comment. Glorfindel had an idea this had happened before.

A visit to the commercial section of the waterfront included the fish market, several warehouses and also a small foundry owned and worked entirely by a family of Dwarves who had known a good business opportunity when they saw one, even if it meant living in an Elven city far from their clan in the Blue Mountains. The King was greeted as an honoured guest, and given a brief tour. After this, he spent upwards of an hour being educated in the benefits and difficulties experienced by Dwarves trading within his kingdom by the owner, a thickset Dwarf with a greying beard, whose name, Glorfindel gathered, was Nýrád.

Discussion concluded, the next stop on Gil-galad’s list turned out to be a tavern, which was another new experience for Glorfindel, there having been nothing resembling inns or public taverns in Gondolin. In fact, there had been no taverns in Nevrast either, he reflected, sitting alone on a bench in a dimly-lit room, a mug containing a honey-brown beverage, enthusiastically recommended by Gil-galad, on the table before him

Gil was on the other side of the room, engrossed in a noisy discussion, punctuated by bursts of raucous merriment, with a group of seamen. Dalbros had gone off with Master Edhelûr, who was proving an excellent source of information about the founding of the town, and Thenin had joined the two warriors who were serving as an unobtrusive escort to the High King. Gil-galad refused to have an official guard, saying it was an insult to his people that he should appear to protect himself from them.

The King finally tore himself away to the accompaniment of much laughter and joking and made his way back to Glorfindel. Settling down on the bench opposite, he drank deeply and leaned back against the wall with a contented sigh, which was seen rather than heard over the sounds of talking, the clatter of plates, and the dissonance of a musical instrument being tuned.

“Now this is nice, isn’t it?” he said in satisfied tones. “Círdan doesn’t approve, of course, but it’s a good place to get to know what people are thinking. I never liked being too precious and set apart, anyway.”

The golden warrior kept his thoughts to himself and nodded. Gil, he had noticed, was quite good at justifying little personal indulgences like this, but he worked hard and was entitled. “You’ve been enjoying yourself today, haven’t you?” he asked instead, amused. “I think all those inspections were just an excuse to meet old friends and share some gossip.”

“I don’t gossip,” Gil-galad informed him flatly, shaking his head. “Much.” He flashed an easy grin. “I like Forlond,” he admitted. “I like the way it’s laid out, the atmosphere… Círdan’s folk followed him to Mithlond at the end of the War, but a lot of the people who fled to Balar during the fighting moved here. It almost feels like coming home for a visit,” he finished, with a slightly embarrassed look.

Glorfindel nodded. He treasured these occasional glimpses into private spaces, storing them up to mull over later, adding another piece to the picture he was building. “It’s less formal here,” he ventured. “Is that what appeals to you?”

Gil-galad’s eyes took on a slightly grim look. “I could live my life just fine without all the formality,” he agreed. “Trouble is, people like to see the trappings of power. I suppose it’s reassuring to know someone’s accountable. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with it.”

The warrior looked around again. This was probably as informal as a setting got, he decided, sipping his drink. The beverage was unusual, with an almost yeasty smell, and tingled in his mouth not unpleasantly. He gestured with the mug and asked, “What am I drinking, anyway? A specialty from Balar? I’ve never tasted anything like it before.”

“What, this?” Gil-galad’s expressive face lit up. “They call it beer. It’s brewed by the Dwarves from some kind of grain. Nýrád’s brother began importing it and it’s grown so popular we’re considering a trade agreement with his clan. First time I ever tasted it was here.”

The tavern was starting to fill up now, as the working day drew to a close. Thenin and the escort had been forced to change tables to remain beside them. Glorfindel noticed that no one attempted to approach the King, though from the looks turned their way it was clear everyone knew who the visitors were, even though Gil-galad was dressed casually and the two warriors were wearing only the light, leather armour that was common to most fighters. It occurred to him that this was a known pleasure of the King’s, to sit and drink the Dwarf beverage in a tavern and watch normal people going about normal business, and that Forlond was happy to see him doing so.

Gil-galad drank deeply, inclined his head in greeting to someone, then turned back, his eyes serious. “I was proud of you back there. Not often I’ve seen someone refuse to be overawed by Eönwë. Much use it was in the end though. Think he really knows what they want? I wouldn’t put it past him. That bastard has ice water flowing where others have blood.”

Glorfindel blinked at the dislike in the King’s tone, then shook his head. “I don’t think so, no. If he did, I think he would have wanted me to know he hadn’t told me, if that makes sense.”

“Ah,” Gil-galad said, nodding. “Yes, that would be about right for him.”

He sat quietly for a few minutes, gazing into his beer and apparently lost in thought, then said casually, “I was watching one of the patrol ships from the Fleet earlier, and it started me thinking…”

He had been watching a couple, probably courting, who were in their turn watching him, but something in the very casualness caught and focused Glorfindel’s attention. “Oh?”

Gil-galad nodded and said slowly. “The only place I need an attack force right now is on the water, you know. That got me thinking about the army.” He sat back against the wall again, the late sunlight slanting through a nearby window catching his hair and lifting the red lights to view, and he smiled his most disarmingly charming smile before becoming serious again. “We spent all my life taking war to the Enemy, but what we need now is a defensive force. We need warriors who can secure our borders and clear out the Orcs and renegade Men who still threaten the smaller settlements… We need a force trained to protect.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them. “I know you turned this down before, I know you said you had no wish to fight or send others out to do so. But defense was the whole object of Gondolin, you would understand it far better than any of my senior commanders. You are exactly who I want - someone who can look at the army in its present form and design the changes that would fit it for today’s needs.”

He had been gesturing animatedly with his large, expressive hands while he spoke, and his light blue eyes had been intent, but now his face softened. He gave Glorfindel a look containing more intimacy than could be expressed in public, followed by a smile that was almost a touch.

“It might not be your intended destiny, but it’s work that has to be done. You could pick your own assistants, have a completely free hand. At the end you would present your report to my full council, not privately to me – no grounds this time to accuse me of trying to find something to keep you amused. You don’t have to answer me now,” he added, swallowing down the last of his beer. “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.“

~*~*~*~*~

Erestor’s day had been too busy to allow for any breaks, to the extent that an apple eaten at his desk had passed for lunch, and it was mid afternoon before he next saw Elrond. He was on his way to speak to the captain of the palace guard when he caught sight of the by now familiar figure, sitting on a bench under a willow tree, his hands resting loosely in his lap as he stared out over the lake. The liveliness of the morning had vanished, replaced by an almost physical sense of stillness. Hurried though he was, Erestor paused for a moment and watched him, considering.

The morning had offered distractions – waking in a strange bed, kisses, caresses, laughter. Since then there would have been time to feel the emptiness of the palace, to note the absence of the dog… Laslech’s loss would be a constant reminder of all that had been taken, and he spared an angry thought for Elros, who could surely have left her behind as consolation of sorts. Like most Elves, Erestor had never had a pet, but had noticed the companionship and comfort Men seemed to gain from them and had certainly enjoyed his interchanges with Laslech.

He resumed walking, with the idea of finishing the current errand and then going back to spend a few minutes with Elrond, and was almost at the barracks’ administrative office when a movement to his right caught his attention. He stood quite still for a moment as an idea presented itself to him, fully detailed and simplicity itself in execution if he was determined enough.

The captain found himself on the receiving end of a brief list of instructions regarding the new, more efficient roster which had been determined by a committee of five bureaucrats and which would almost certainly never work. He was given no chance to argue, but was simply told to present any objections or suggestions in writing, after which the junior advisor left in a swirl of black hair at a pace just short of a run.

Erestor felt sorry for him – he had thought the roster nonsensical himself and had gone prepared to discuss it and make suggestions, but as things now stood that would have to wait for a couple of days. He had arrangements to make.