Chapter Nine

“No!” Glorfindel said flatly. “Absolutely not!”

Gil-galad’s eyebrows shot up. He knew that Glorfindel, though not usually forceful in expressing an opinion, still had very much a mind of his own. This adamant response to what had appeared a reasonable suggestion was, however, completely unexpected.

A few days after their conversation relating to Glorfindel’s future plans, Gil-galad had gone to speak to Círdan, who he knew would already have been giving the matter thought. He also knew that Círdan would prefer, in his usual quiet way, to wait until, as had happened in the past, Gil came to him for advice.

Círdan, who was spending a few days at the center of government, was in the suite of rooms kept for his use. He was having a quiet morning indoors, building a scale model to demonstrate the modifications he wished to make to the standard coastal trading vessel. He looked up from the plans spread out before him and nodded a wordless greeting.

Gil-galad waited, as accustomed, until his foster father had finished familiarizing himself with some detail. Círdan moved away from the table and over to chairs placed to catch the sunshine slanting weakly in through the nearby window. Winter would soon be upon them.

They sat and talked lightly of small matters, mainly concerning the preparations being made for the departure of the last ship to travel, with the blessing and guidance of the Valar, to Númenor. Gil-galad was careful to avoid asking about the model being constructed on the work table; Círdan could be somewhat enthusiastic on the subject of design. Eventually, without too much effort on Gil-galad’s side, the conversation shifted round to Glorfindel.

Cirdan had obviously given the subject of Glorfindel’s future some thought. Sensing this to be the reason for Gil-galad’s visit, he settled himself more thoroughly into his chair, folding his hands across his lap. The sunlight touched his hair, giving it the appearance of mithril.

“I do feel he has been given more than enough time to accustom himself to his surroundings,” Círdan said judiciously. “There has been a tendency to regard the elapsed time since Glorfindel last walked Middle-earth as eons long, when in fact Gondolin fell quite recently. A few things may have changed, but after all, it is not as though he has been sent to start over in the midst of one of the mortal realms. “

Gil-galad knew exactly how lost and disoriented Glorfindel had been, but thought it best to be quiet and allow the discussion to flow. Instinct also firmly suggested that he say nothing that might alert the aged Elf to his changed relationship with Glorfindel. Círdan was a little old fashioned about such matters.

“Be that as it may,” he said, refusing to be drawn, “I have no idea how best to employ him. They sent him back with no hint as to their reasons …unless you were told something?” It wouldn’t have surprised Gil-galad. The Valar thought well of the bearded Teleri.

“One evil has been defeated, but not all,” Círdan said firmly. “Others will rise. You have been sent a warrior who was high in Turgon’s esteem. He fought and acquitted himself well in open warfare, and he has faced and defeated one of Morgoth’s creatures of darkness. Who better to place as commander of your army?”

~*~*~*~*~

Glorfindel sat in the room where they had become lovers, and heard Gil-galad out without interruption, before offering his unambiguous response. Gil, in the act of bringing them both wine, frowned slightly. He handed Glorfindel his goblet and then perched on the arm of the chair, leaning slightly against the blonde and toying with his shining hair.

“I don’t understand,” Gil admitted. “You trained for war for most of your life, you were one of Turgon’s senior commanders, you had the personal skill to defeat a Balrog, you are the perfect choice. You bring experience, expertise, a reputation…”

Glorfindel got up abruptly, put his wine down on a nearby table, and walked over to the window, where he stood looking out at the gathering darkness. There was a sense of isolation and sadness about the blonde Elf, but Gil-galad stayed quiet, giving him time to gather his thoughts and choose his words before expressing an opinion. Without turning, Glorfindel said,

”So. I fought in a few notable battles, and I challenged a Balrog. This fits me to be commander of your army?” he asked. At which point Gil realised that the air of stillness heralded not sorrow, but annoyance. “Have you even thought this through, or are you just interested in giving me something to do that will look impressive? Something suitable for the King’s lover, perhaps?”

No, Gil-galad amended. Not annoyed. Angry. Before he could interrupt with a protest, Glorfindel continued, “You have no real interest in how I might feel about this, have you? The whole idea makes no sense, Gil. Have you even stopped to consider what my reputation is really based on?”

Gil-galad considered attempting to dispel the gloom and bring some warmth into the room by lighting the lamp, but chose instead to stay seated and do nothing that might stem the flow of words. This angry intensity revealed an unfamiliar side to Glorfindel, one which Gil found both intriguing and slightly unsettling. Furthermore, he was almost pleased to discover that, when roused, Glorfindel expressed his views completely without restraint.

“If you want to explain, I’m listening,” he said quietly.

The even tone, perfected during numerous military councils as a means to gain attention and calm heated tempers, made Glorfindel pause to take breath. The blonde gave the offer consideration, then nodded slowly and finally turned back to face the room. The light from the window outlined his body and his shining hair, but left his face half shadowed. Even so, Gil-galad could see the change. Glorfindel’s customary openness had been replaced by tension and a brooding sadness

“The first time I saw dead Elves was at Alqualondë, by firelight.” He stopped, frowning, following some private train of thought. “Did you know there were fires?” he asked, his eyes seeking out Gil-galad’s.

Gil met his gaze and shook his head; this feature of the Kinslaying was unknown to him. When he merged the words ‘fire’ and ‘Alqualondë ‘, the picture created for him was of the ships burning on the far shore.

Glorfindel nodded again, half to himself.

“I suppose lamps were knocked over, torches dropped. There was house to house fighting down near the harbour,” he said, his voice softer, anger giving place for a time to memory. He started to prowl the dusk-filled room. “There were little fires everywhere when we arrived. What I remember are the sounds of fire crackling and of sobbing. Many of the dead were still lying where they had fallen. Their kin had no idea what to do with their bodies. The Quendi had no experience of death…”

Gil studied his wine as he listened. He seldom, if ever, thought of Glorfindel as one of the remaining Exiles from the time of the Oath, which, of course, he was. For the first time since they had met he sensed, behind Glorfindel’s sweetness, the age and memories of one of Turgon’s most valued war leaders. The soft voice continued.

“We got used to the idea of death after that, of course. The Helcaraxë was a swift teacher. I lost my mother to the Ice. It opened at her feet. One moment she was there, the next, not.”

Glorfindel shook himself and crossed the room briskly, as though in retreat from the memory, to where Gil sat. He retrieved his wine and drank before continuing.

“That was how I learned about death. War came later. After the Crossing there was always fighting, always some enemy, some threat. After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, I knew I had seen enough. I commanded Turgon’s rearguard, Gil, and I saw what we left behind us; bodies beyond count, death and horror. We who survived went back into the Hidden City and closed the gates behind us. We never rode out to war again.”

He stared, unseeing, down at the chessboard which displayed a game in progress. They had just discovered they were well-matched opponents, one being as easily distracted from the intricacies of the game as the other. He smiled without humour.

“War came to us instead. We practiced and prepared for over four hundred years in case we had to ride out again, and war came to us. And we weren’t ready. And yes,” Glorfindel looked up sharply, a trace of his earlier heat returning. “I killed a Balrog. People forget a small point about that. When I killed it, I went down into the dark in its company.”

He picked up one of the crystal pieces, turning it round and round between his fingers, and then said with finality, “No one should be asked to remember his own death. I do. I can describe every moment, every thought.”

They silently contemplated this, giving the horror the respect it was due, then Glorfindel came and sank down cross-legged on the rug in front of Gil. He gave him a level stare and said,

“My experience is of horror and defeat and death. I would not appoint someone with that background, nor would I feel safe serving under him. You need a commander who still believes, Gil. Someone like yourself, young enough not to remember The Tears. Someone,” he concluded, “who was not in Gondolin at the end.”

Gil-galad drew a breath, followed by another sip of his wine, waiting to make sure Glorfindel was finished speaking.

“I’m sorry you doubted my motives,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “It surprises me that you think I would give anyone a senior position based on the fact that we share a bed. It’s hardly my way. I badly need someone to take command of the army – I have more than enough work as things are without seeing to that as well on a day-to-day basis. Círdan and I both thought you the best choice. Why not at least consider the idea?”

Deep blue eyes, the colour of a summer sky, regarded him through the gloom. The blonde warrior looked down at his hands and said expressionlessly, “I suppose it would be easier for you, having your lover doing this. It would make things simpler. You could oversee matters without having to worry about the details.”

Glorfindel listening to his own voice speaking as though from a distance. He felt as far from Gil at that moment as though he had been returned to the Halls of Waiting while they spoke. He turned away to face the unlit fireplace, continuing to toy with the chess piece.

He knew that, as usual, he had expressed himself badly, had failed to clarify his bone-deep resistance to the idea of sending another Elf out to fight and die anywhere for any reason. Glorfindel‘s lesson on the priceless value of life had been a hard one, never to be forgotten, and it would forever colour his view of war. It was not something most people with a warrior background would understand and he was a little surprised that Gil-galad had even tried.

He was about to make one final attempt to explain his feelings when, without warning, he found himself enveloped from behind in a hug, and a voice close to his ear said,

“I would never, never try to force you into something you felt was wrong for you. I had no idea you felt this way, which is a bad excuse, of course, because I should have asked. But if not this, then what? I can see how much you need to have some kind of responsibility to fill your day. This has gone on for long enough.”

Glorfindel turned around and, letting his head drop against a broad shoulder, leaned into the hug, feeling the steady hand stroking his back, the strength in the arms around him. Anger and frustration and sadness drew back before the warmth and genuine concern that was Gil-galad.

“I’m a good swordsman,” he said slowly, firmly banishing all thoughts of Ecthelion. “It’s a skill I think I’d like to teach. It would give me reason and chance to spend more time with your warriors, and it would show them I have something of value to offer.”

He stole a look up at Gil, who was watching him with a carefully expressionless face and, with a soft laugh, shoved the King lightly.

”It just involves demonstrating attack and defense, and talking about it a little. Strange I suppose, but if I have to explain how to do something, and answer questions about it, I quite enjoy myself. It’s just – making small talk. I have no skill for that.”

Gil turned so that they could lean together comfortably. “You’re getting better at it all the time,” he said firmly. “And if teaching is what you want to do, it will be easy enough to arrange “

He bent his head slightly, nudging Glorfindel’s face with his chin in an effort to persuade him to look up, and then kissed him, closed mouth to begin with, but slowly teasing at his lips until eventually Glorfindel let go of the last of his annoyance and, turning his head, responded. It was a slow, very sweet kiss, with the promise of later.

At the end, Gil-galad, with his usual, incorrigibly, irreverent sense of humour, drew back slightly and murmured in Glorfindel's ear,

“If you want to attract large numbers of students, all we need to do is offer the lessons under the title of Basic Balrog-Slaying.”

“Is he still out there?” Elros asked, craning his neck back in an effort to see out the window without getting up. Elrond was curled up in a chair across the room with Laslech lying at his feet. She was watching Elros carefully while he ate as on occasion he had been known to drop delicacies where she could find them. Cheese was a firm favourite, as were apple cores.

Unlike his twin, Elrond had a clear view across the garden, including the sheltered corner where a black-haired Elf was bending and twisting with sinuous movements that stopped just short of dance. Elrond had given up all pretence of not watching; he was hardly likely to be able to convince Elros of his lack of interest. His brother always knew what he was thinking.

Erestor had arrived, as agreed, every morning just after sunrise and each evening around sunset. He was invariably dressed as he had been the night Elrond had first offered him the use of their private garden, and he carried himself in a manner that suggested he was at ease there. His body language said very clearly, however, that he had nothing to discuss with the inhabitants of the nearby suite of rooms.

Elros got up and came over to where his twin sat, and leaned against the chair while eating the remains of a pastry. “What, exactly, did you say to him to make him work so hard at ignoring you?” he asked, his tone reflecting long experience.

Elrond tilted his head to look up. ”Nothing much?” he suggested hopefully. Elros had left the subject of Erestor alone for the first few days, but was now taking an interest. This, in Elrond’s experience, did not bode well. It usually involved questions, advice, sometimes even personal intervention.

It crossed Elrond’s mind that this unsolicited involvement in his often complicated life was about to become a matter of history, but he pushed the thought aside firmly. Elros, possibly thinking the same thing, rested a hand on the back of his brother’s head and pushed, not very gently, but with great affection.

“In case it escaped your attention, he is doing a wonderful job of ignoring you while making certain you can see him,” he chuckled. “How bad could it have been, anyway? He obviously wants you to go out and talk to him.”

Elrond gave his brother a jaundiced look from the side of his eye. “I very much doubt that,” he said firmly. “He was pleasant to me, and I was…well, it was a bad day and I took it out on him, I suppose. At least, that’s how he saw it. I don’t think talking to me is something he wants to repeat. No, this is just a convenient place to exercise.”

Elros considered the Elf in the garden. He had a mind to go out and speak to him, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. “Don’t you dare,” Elrond said softly. “I hardly know him – how would it seem, my brother goes to make peace for me with an almost total stranger? I would look a complete fool.”

“A stranger who makes use of our garden twice daily at your invitation?” Elros asked lightly. However, he knew the tone. Elrond wanted things left alone. For a change, this apparently had less to do with stubbornness or a misguided sense of pride than with an awareness of having done something wrong.

Elros wondered, not for the first time, but with increased anxiety, how his brother was going to cope on his own. Elrond was useless when it came to things like discretion and diplomacy. Well, he was just going to have to learn. Elros sighed and gave one more push to the back of the dark head, so like his own, yet so unlike.

“I think that if you caused discomfort between yourself and someone else, it should be you who tries to make amends,” he suggested, straightening up and tidying his hair back. “I would also think it a good idea not to leave it too long.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the garden. “Someone with those looks has no need to spend too long waiting on your change of mood. He’ll soon find some one else to entertain him.”

He turned to leave, surrogate parenting complete for the morning, to be stopped by Elrond asking hesitantly, “Are you busy all day today?” He was leaning down to play with Laslech’s ears, his face hidden behind his dark curtain of loose hair.

“I might have time for dinner tonight,” Elros replied, only half joking. “I have meetings, maps to study, a lecture from Círdan on the importance of maintaining a strong fleet or some such topic…” He stopped and looked at his brother. “Is something wrong? Did we have plans, was there something you needed?”

Elrond shook his head. “No plans, no. And nothing I needed. Just asking, really. Showing an interest,” he finished, looking up and smiling convincingly. Elros studied him carefully for a moment, but he had no time for more questions. Giving his twin a final searching look, he left.

Elrond turned back to the window. He was in time to see Erestor begin his final sequence, the one that involved a back bend that made Elrond’s mouth go dry. He paused, then dropped his glance to Laslech, who was busy trying to chew the end off her tail. She was still not quite reconciled to the idea that it belonged to her. He took a very deep breath and got up, stretching cat-like and shaking back his troublesome hair.

“Come on, girl. Let’s go outside,” he said with a sigh. “What’s the worst that can happen, anyway?”

~*~*~*~*~

Erestor heard the door open and carefully kept his eyes focused on a point well away both from both the patio and the informal path leading back to the public areas. During his twice daily visits to this private comer of the Palace gardens, he had been very careful to show no curiosity about the whereabouts of the young Princeling whose sharp tongue and imperious attitude had startled and…disappointed him more than he would have expected.

The desire to keep a distance between them was obviously mutual; Erestor had been left very much to his own devices.

He was balanced on one leg, his weight on the ball of the foot, his arms stretched gracefully up and back, when he was struck just below the knee by a small, solid, and highly excited body. He hit the ground in a confusion of limbs and hair and for a moment lay motionless, with his eyes closed. His first coherent thought was of how ridiculous he probably looked.

The perpetrator of this disaster was standing behind him, her front paws on his shoulder and her back paws tangled in his hair, ecstatically licking his face. Erestor turned onto his stomach, gently urged the dog onto the ground, and rolled to sit up. He was busy pushing the heavy black hair out of his face before he finally looked up, only to find Elrond standing in front of him, an expression of genuine horror on his face.

They stared at one another and then, unable to help himself, Erestor started to laugh. What most struck him as funny was that this was the second time Laslech had instigated an unlikely, and potentially uncomfortable, meeting between them. Elrond gave him an uncertain look, then bent to pick up his offending pet, who gave a yelp of alarm at being handled almost roughly. Erestor leaned back on his arms and trying to restrain his laughter, protested,

“No, no, let her be. I was probably too good a target to ignore.” He met Elrond’s eye, his own sparkling with mirth. “Put her down, she was busy trying to apologise.” He heard himself and caught back the laughter, realising his comment could easily be thought to contain a reference to prior events.

Elrond quirked an elegant brow, and set Laslech down again before reaching out a hand in assistance.

“Unlike me?” he suggested.

Erestor took the proffered hand and moved gracefully to his feet, and found himself a little closer to his helper than planned. Their eyes met more seriously.

“I was coming to say I was sorry for my lack of manners,” Elrond admitted, finding it surprisingly easy to acknowledge fault once he made up his mind to it. “You were right – my temper was better aimed elsewhere. A bad morning is no excuse, I realise, but…” He paused, bit his lip lightly, shrugged. “I apologise. Elros is right, I just don’t seem to know when to stop sometimes.”

Erestor had stepped back, giving them both the security of a little more space. He found it disconcerting to be quite so close to the King’s cousin. Elrond was wearing leggings and a light, sleeveless tunic, and his unbound hair danced loose about his face and shoulders in the light breeze. He smelt, faintly and unexpectedly, of violets. Erestor tried to stop wondering whether the scent emanated from the Half-elf’s hair or his skin, and to stop picturing the more obvious ways to determine this.

He ventured a smile.

“I was late and harassed and took it more to heart than was called for,” he said in return, frowning unconsciously as he automatically started to tidy his hair, pulling it back and fastening the side braids behind his head to keep it all in place. Elrond stepped behind him, unasked, and their fingers met over the simple tortoiseshell clasp.

For a moment, Erestor’s entire awareness was centered on that touch, then his hair was fastened and Elrond was stepping back from him. He turned, their eyes met, and the air between them became alive, almost tangible, pulsing with expectation. Erestor was about to speak, to offer whatever random words happened to find their way onto his tongue, when the bell heralding the third hour from dawn - the hour when work officially began - started chiming. Life’s realities reasserted themselves. Giving the Half-elf a wry smile he said,

“Well, I am now officially late, my Lord, so, if you will excuse me…”

“Elrond,” the Half-elf said quietly. Erestor shot him an enquiring glance. “I mean, my name’s Elrond,” he explained, his eyes and body language showing just a fraction of uncertainty. “Please don’t call me ‘my Lord’. That’s only for formal occasions, and even then … I don’t know that I’ve ever really grown comfortable with it”

“Elrond, then,” Erestor responded with a smile, meeting the grey eyes.

Elrond bit his lip, a quick flash of tooth that sent a thrill of desire through Erestor, and said, with a small, unsure movement of his hands, “I’ll see you later, perhaps?”

Erestor, his thoughts racing, nodded. The interest in the storm grey eyes matched his own, but the situation argued against light dalliance. It was a well-known fact that Gil-galad was very fond of his two young peredhil cousins. Erestor, however, had spent most of his life living dangerously.

“Tonight,” he said, with a smile of irresistible charm. “I’ll be back tonight.”