Light the Dawn

“No.”

“Look, I know this isn’t your kind of thing, but people like a bit of pomp and ceremony.”

“They get all the pomp and ceremony they need. You say that all the time. I’ve heard you --- grumbling your head off while you struggle into formal robes and fancy jewellery.”

“That’s different. Everyone knows I’m king of Lindon, or they should. But this is something new.”

“Well then it can be dealt with in a new way, too. No fuss.”

Gil-galad gave him a dark look but tried to keep his tone patient. Generally good natured, Glorfindel was as stubborn as a mule when he felt strongly about something, and seldom responded well to attempts at pressure. “Look,” he said reasonably. “I know you don’t like crowds and fuss and being the centre of attention. I’ve tried since almost the day you arrived here to help you avoid that kind of thing. But – this is a new kingdom, and an even newer army. To make it strong we need traditions, pageantry, a bit of ritual. And that means when I declare you Commander of my forces, I need – “

“Flash. Drama. Trumpets. Proclamations. Impossible to do it without, of course.” Glorfindel’s tone was sarcastic, which was its own warning; acid comment was more Elrond’s style than his. Gil-galad wryly thought it a pity his young cousin was off with Gildor’s people somewhere in the far South. He would have known how to make Glorfindel listen.

They had withdrawn to the far end of his work place where a window looked out towards the stables, leaving a group including Círdan, Cirithon and Elrond’s friend Erestor in an uncomfortable-looking huddle by the desk. Well, most of them seemed uncomfortable. Erestor, unflappably composed, looked blandly unconcerned with what was happening across the room and was taking advantage of the pause to sort Cirithon’s papers into a new order.

Returning his attention to the immediate problem he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “One damn day out of your life. As a favour to me. Smile, look pleased, say yes and thank you in the right places… and I will never, ever ask anything like this of you again. Ever. Come on, Glaur,” he added coaxingly. “It’s all in the final planning stage. People have been invited, they’re making an effort to be here. Even my aunt…”

Galadriel had spent little time at court since the birth of her daughter. She claimed motherhood took all her free time, though Gil-galad suspected her of harbouring a degree of resentment in response to his cheerful “Yes, knew it was a girl.” when the news was announced. Looking back, that had probably been a bit undiplomatic considering her unshakeable belief that she carried a politically-desirable boy.

“Well, if you cancel she’ll be happy. She’s become quite a homebody since Celebrían’s arrival.”

Gil-galad wondered if Glorfindel was as sincere as he looked and sounded. His expression gave nothing away, but if anyone knew how much Galadriel hated having her will thwarted, it would be her kinsman. “No she won’t,” he said, more sharply than intended. “She will have made arrangements, decided what to wear, the best time to arrive to get noticed – she’ll be furious. If for no other reason, you might want to do this to keep her happy.”

They glared at one another. Finally Glorfindel shrugged and stepped back a pace, a signal that the discussion was over. It annoyed Gil-galad beyond words when he did this, but the few times he raised the matter, he had been treated to a blank look followed by flustered apologies. The act, infuriating though he found it, was unconscious, Glorfindel’s way of withdrawing from a potential confrontation.

“Right.” The speech patterns of Gondolin were suddenly very much in evidence, as was always the case when Glorfindel felt strongly about something. “I know an order when I hear one. You don’t need me around while the details get hammered out, I think.”

Gil-galad opened his mouth, then closed it again firmly as Glorfindel strode back across the room and keep going straight out the door, which he closed behind him with a disturbingly solid click. All eyes swivelled to watch him leave, except for Erestor who turned instead to gaze serenely out the window behind the big table that served as a desk. When Gil-galad resumed his seat, he politely dropped his eyes to the papers resting on his lap.

Erestor’s presence at high level discussions was becoming a regular occurrence, the king thought. Cirithon seemed to like having him around to take notes or simply to listen; he couldn’t decide if the seasoned warrior was mentoring the younger Elf, or if he had a fancy for him. Possibly a bit of both, Gil-galad suspected. Well, none of his business.

"Next item?" he asked brusquely. There was a general shuffling and exchange of glances, after which planning for the investiture of the new Commander of Lindon’s armed forces continued.

Erestor was a junior military advisor specialising in matters of intelligence, and was only there because Cirithon, his senior, had brought him along to take notes. As was expected, he listened carefully, but kept his thoughts to himself.

~*~*~*~*~

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Glorfindel turned to watch Erestor’s approach across the palace roof, the wind tugging fitfully at his carefully-braided black hair. Despite the blonde’s lifelong shyness with strangers, the two had been unlikely friends from their first meeting. That Glorfindel was Erestor’s superior in both rank and authority should have been awkward, but the younger Elf’s sublime self-confidence somehow reduced this to an incidental detail, barely worthy of notice. Glorfindel’s tacit disapproval of his relationship with Elrond seemed to bother him even less; he treated it as the price one paid for daring to conduct a romance with the king’s de facto heir.

“It could be worse,” Erestor added, joining him.

“Yes? How?”

Erestor leaned his folded arms on the balustrade and looked moodily across the gardens to where the land dropped abruptly to the sea. “Well,” he said slowly, picking his words, “They might have wanted three days of festivities with demonstrations of prowess by the army, a naval exercise just off the coast, to be watched from the terrace by the full court, followed by a mock battle between Elves and Orcs?”

Glorfindel stared at him in disbelief, then laughed. “That’s true,” he agreed. “They might have. Could have been much worse. They might even have wanted me to give a personal demonstration of swordsmanship. So – what did they finally settle on?”

Erestor considered explaining this outline had reached the stage of logistics planning, and that several people might well be upset with themselves for overlooking the solo display, but decided against it. Glorfindel had come a long way out of his shell since they had first met, but not quite far enough. “Look,” he said, casually pushing hair like polished jet back behind his ears. “It will be uncomfortable, it will be irritating. But then it will be over. Think of his majesty? He has to deal with this all the time.”

“It doesn’t bother him.” Glorfindel pointed out a trifle grimly. “He isn’t fond of dressing up but otherwise…”

Erestor studied him, considering. After a minute he asked carefully, “How did they manage things like this in Gondolin – honours, promotions and suchlike?”

Glorfindel blinked. “Um…?“

“No, really. It must have happened. I was just wondering how it was done, if it was very different to the way things are managed here.”

It was an over-statement to suggest there was yet a normal way for things to be done in Lindon. The realm was no more than a few decades old, the dust of the War of Wrath barely settled. But already a style was becoming evident, tied to the approach to kingship of its lord.

“It was – probably like what I heard suggested earlier? Very formal. Everyone in the Great Square. Spectators – there would need to be witnesses, that was the law. Full array, all the Houses.”

If a word like ‘cringe’ could be applied to someone of Glorfindel’s reputation, he cringed. Erestor noted this without surprise. “So you’ve seen this all before,” he hazarded. At Glorfindel’s uneasy nod he said, “Well, at least there’ll be no surprises? And all you really have to do is stare straight ahead, say the right things at the right time and remember to bow to His Majesty.”

“I just don’t see the point. And if he wants to name me Commander, whatever that really means, he doesn’t need a fancy ceremony to make the point. Hate this sort of thing,” he finished off in a low, embarrassed voice.

“I rather think he does,” Erestor said quite gently. “I mean, tradition needs to be built on something, and pride is usually very much tied up with it. In the past, that was part of what bound Maedhros’ people so tightly together. They had their ways, their traditions. Some they brought from over the sea, others grew here, but the combination was uniquely theirs, it set them apart. Lindon needs that, and armies thrive on it. So…”

He fell silent for a minute, then abruptly flashed Glorfindel a winning smile of the type that caused all manner of unlikely people to lose their concentration and simply stare, “I suppose you have two options - either grit your teeth and get through it, do it for Lindon, or…” The smile deepened into mischief, “You could try my alternative.”

“I have no idea what Elrond sees in you,” Glorfindel informed him tersely.

Erestor chuckled wickedly. “In that case, my friend, you have no imagination.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sire. Could I have a moment of your time?”

The communal hot bath was a square pool set in the centre of a brightly tiled floor. Alcoves along one wall offered massage facilities, a draped doorway led through to a well-appointed changing area. The bath itself was chest deep to the average elf, and had benches set underwater along three sides upon which patrons could take their ease, talk, catch up on gossip, even partake of the occasional cup of wine.

The air was moist and warm, redolent of new-washed towels, the herbal essence that scented the water, and a combination of rose geranium and almond flower, the main components of a popular massage oil.

Currently the pool was almost deserted, save for one lone bather at the far end and Gil-galad, relaxing with a well-earned cup of light wine while the warm water worked its magic on the day’s tensions. The words fell softly into the late afternoon peace of the private section of the palace bathhouse. The voice came from behind and above him, and when he looked round, it was to be confronted with the sight of Erestor, naked save for a loosely draped towel, shining black hair drifting over chest and arms.

“What can I do for you, Erestor?” he asked mildly, sipping wine and trying not to stare.

Erestor sank down gracefully, the white towel sliding to his waist. “It’s about Lord Glorfindel’s investiture,” he explained with a smile that displayed perfect teeth.

Gil-galad leaned a wet, muscular arm on the rim of the pool and waited to hear more. They had plans in place, and as far as he could recall the only things that still required attention were a few practical details. The main one that came to mind was finding someone competent to adapt existing ceremonial armour for Glorfindel, who would probably baulk at being measured up for a personal suit. At Círdan’s suggestion, they had finally decided his house crest picked out in gold plus the addition of a few gemstones would be sufficient ornamentation.

“I – think there is a chance something was overlooked in the discussion, Sire.”

His voice was mellow, with a hint of danger, promise, hidden knowledge. Gil-galad shifted to a more discreet angle and sent a firm instruction to an over-alert portion of his anatomy, warning it to lie down and behave itself. “I thought we had it all sorted out, Erestor. You took the notes for Cirithon, you’d probably remember it all better than I do?”

Erestor nodded earnestly and moved a little closer. “I was wondering…. Have you considered how these things were done in Gondolin? Or in other Elven realms?”

Gil-galad frowned at him. “Gondolin? Lots of spectacle and… fuss?”

“The things Lord Glorfindel finds so uncomfortable, yes. Also,” Erestor added, daring a finger to carefully hook hair neatly back over the king’s shoulder, “Today’s plan, which is essentially a formal affair involving the entire court and some representatives of the military, offers nothing new, nothing exceptional to set it apart from what has gone before. Nothing that clearly says ‘Lindon’.”

Gil-galad sat up very straight and glared at the unsettlingly attractive Elf, who was getting a bit too close for his comfort. A non-committal ‘maybe’ to whatever he had to suggest might not be a bad idea – the longer this discussion continued, the more chance that he would inadvertently embarrass himself. “Well, what do you want to do about it? Import a few Mûmakil from the South, hire some dancing Dwarves…”

Erestor waited him out with the same obvious patience Gil-galad had noticed Elrond seemed to be trying, with mixed results, to cultivate. It was now obvious where he had the idea from. “I think dancing Dwarves might be interesting,” Erestor ventured when he had run through a list of the implausible. “Especially as I have never seen such a thing before. But they would have very little to do with the army. Neither,” he added, “do mock battles with fake Orcs, or a courtly receiving line to congratulate someone who is – notoriously ill at ease in such situations.”

Gil-galad reached for the towel he had left lying nearby, but Erestor was there before him, handing it to him. The king wiped his face carefully, then rubbed ineffectually at his hair. “You have a better idea?” he asked, throwing the towel back down. He was annoyed at the implication the day’s work had been a misguided waste, but curious, too, to see what Erestor might offer in its place. He gave the impression of being - creative.

“I believe Lord Glorfindel may have some sound ideas of his own,” Erestor said unexpectedly. “As far as I can recall, no one thought to ask him. Meanwhile he is very aware of the need to create traditions, and … with your permission, I do believe he and I could organise something suitable and in its own way impressive. Something – distinctly military.”

He waited, leaving his opinion of the agreed-upon round of court festivities implied but unmentioned between them.

“How much is this going to cost me?” To Gil-galad’s not inexperienced eye, Erestor looked expensive.

Erestor widened his eyes slightly. “Why, probably far less than the original concept, Sire. There may be a few incidentals, but this should be quite straightforward. I am sure the army will be able to find space in the annual budget for it.”

The words sank in with the same comfort as the warm water. Building a kingdom out of the destruction of the War of Wrath was proving a costly business, and Gil-galad, although immensely generous in his own right, had found it necessary to keep a tight hand on the treasury keys.

“All right, what did you have in mind?” He hastily re-crossed his legs against inconveniently renewed nether stirrings, but it was too late. Erestor was smiling down at him, infinite amusement in eyes that Gil-galad suspected seldom missed anything.

Long-fingered, capable-looking hands picked up the towel and shook it out efficiently. “Not at this time, Sire, no. Some consultation needs to be done first. Are you finished? May I assist you?”

He knelt, holding the towel open invitingly as he spoke. They exchanged a long look. Gil-galad took a mouthful of wine, swallowed carefully. “I think I’ll stay a little longer, thank you Erestor,” he said levelly. “We can talk when things are more organised. Pity you waited till now to raise this instead of bringing it up earlier”

Bad choice of words. Very bad. The thought was confirmed by the spark of evil glee that came and went in those unusual amber eyes. Erestor rose gracefully, smiled sweetly, and nodded as though the reply confirmed his expectations. “As you wish, Your Majesty,” he said. “I’m sure Lord Glorfindel will fill you in when he’s ready. I will take it upon myself to inform Lord Círdan there has been a change in plans, shall I? Before he starts getting the Fleet organised.”

Wine cup to lips, Gil-galad watched as Erestor departed, presenting a rear view of swaying black hair and creamy skin, the towel about his waist calling attention to his nicely rounded behind. Settling back in the water again, he laughed ruefully. He wondered how the investiture was likely to turn out after this. It was a long time since he had been quite so well played, and he was sorry there was no one to share the story with – he doubted Glorfindel, his accustomed confidante, would see the funny side.

“So… what’s happening?”

Glorfindel paused, hairbrush in hand, to glance towards the bed where Gil-galad lounged amongst pillows, eating some kind of apple dessert purloined from the kitchen earlier in the evening.

“Happening?”

“About your investiture? Next week? When do I get the details? Last time I saw Erestor, he swore you were on top of it.”

Blue eyes laughing, Glorfindel quirked an eyebrow at him. “On top of it? That’s more your style, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very funny. Do you not plan to tell me? Might be difficult. Think I’m meant to be there, after all. My army, my appointment. My money, too,” he added dourly. Erestor had been quite correct, the army had opted to pay for the ceremony but had asked for an increase in its annual budget to cover the expenditure.

“Not very expensive,” Glorfindel assured him. “Much less than you intended spending, Erestor says. And you’ll find out when it’s time. I want to surprise you.” His hair rippled like rich gold in the lamplight as he continued brushing. “You like surprises, right?”

“Maybe. Don’t know. Want to try surprise me tonight, see how it works?”

Glorfindel set down the hairbrush and walked slowly towards the bed, his movements all burlesqued seduction. “Well, I could,” he teased, “But then you’d want to know where I learned – whatever – and then you’d be asking if there was something I wanted to tell you, and it would all end up in this messy discussion with me wanting to know the true story about you and the boy who used to work in the herb garden...”

“We aren’t going there again,” Gil-galad growled. “Told you, found him interesting, liked talking with him. Nothing more.” Glorfindel dropped down onto the bed and Gil-galad reached for him, trying to look serious. “You know I would never, ever cheat on someone who could take down a Balrog, don’t you?” he asked in a voice that was just short of a purr. Glorfindel gave him a none too gentle warning punch, and the king laughed, caught hold of him, and used his superior weight to roll Glorfindel onto his back. “Anyhow, why would I want to look elsewhere?” he asked, his expression tender. “I have you to come home to, don’t I?”

Despite his sincerity, an image of Cirithon’s assistant walking away from him, hair and backside swaying enticingly, slid into his mind. He shut it out firmly. No harm in looking, he reasoned as he dipped his head for a kiss. Touching now, that was another matter. That crossed the line.

Glorfindel returned his kiss, eyes warm with affection, a hand raised to caress his cheek. “Truly? I want to see your reaction, and it’ll be spoilt if I tell you in advance.”

Gil-galad grunted agreement, pushing handfuls of blonde hair aside to nuzzle an ear. “All right, all right, no more questions. Just tell me where to go and what to do.”

Glorfindel draped an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, grinning. “What, here and now? You don’t know? Maybe I can show you. And - if it helps, Galadriel thinks we have a very interesting idea.”

Gil-galad would have liked to ask what in Morgoth’s seventh hell his aunt had to do with all this, but before he could draw breath, Glorfindel had taken the initiative, and suddenly he was the one on his back and being kissed, very thoroughly. After which, he was far too occupied to ask any more questions.