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'A Plain, Simple Love Story'
A Plain, Simple Love Story
Lindon, S.A. 1730.
“Indeed, sir, and I am sure you are quite entitled to
your opinion on the food production methods used in
Gondolin. It must be that we have read rather different
books on the subject.”
With a gesture implying he would return shortly, Erestor
nodded agreement, then put a convenient pillar between
himself and possibly the most opinionated bore he had
ever been trapped by. He had been quite eager when his
host, a friend of Lord Elrond’s, had invited him along
to a begetting day celebration at the palace for someone
whose name he had trouble pronouncing - Mirnimmeril,
something along those lines - but as the evening wore
on, his enthusiasm had waned substantially.
He had assumed this route would lead to the main salon,
a vast room where the conversation was unpleasantly loud
and where the general finery made his neat but simple
dove blue robe seem distinctly underdressed. It did, but
rounding the pillar had brought him face to face with a
doorway opening onto an unlit balcony. He hesitated for
no more than an instant, then stepped out into the cool
air, grateful for the respite and taking care to leave
the door slightly ajar as he had found it.
The balcony had a railing made of an unfamiliar metal,
with whorls and curves that gave it an airy, delicate
look. He was careful not to lean against it, daring
nothing more than a light pressure of hands, but it
seemed quite solid. The view would be spectacular in
daylight, he thought, with the gardens stretching out in
front of him towards the darker mass that was the Gulf
of Lhûn. There were lights to the right, and as he
leaned out a little to try and orient himself, he was
startled by movement on the edge of his vision.
A figure in shadow resolved into a tall, well-built elf
with a mane of dark hair which had been twisted and
braided to hold it back from his face. He wore a robe of
some dark colour, possibly blue, and no jewellery other
than the strands of gems that glittered in his hair and
a few rings on either hand. He joined Erestor at the
railing, leaning his elbows on it with a marked lack of
concern for its delicate appearance. He had a wine cup
in one hand, which he proceeded to sip from. He looked
out across the garden broodingly for a minute, then
turned to Erestor and raised an eyebrow.
“I hate these dos. Was that Golwenion? He likes to think
he’s quite the expert on Gondolin. You wouldn’t be the
first unwary guest to be bored senseless by him on the
subject.”
His voice was quite deep with a rich timbre. Erestor
thought he might make a good singer, while his speech
placed him possibly as a warrior, though clearly of
rank. He had a broad face, more characterful than
beautiful, with strong eyebrows and chin, piercing eyes
and a mouth that held a line somewhere between humourous
and sensual. More to the point, he looked friendly.
“He seemed to have strong opinions,” Erestor ventured
carefully. He had been unable to ascertain Golwenion’s
rank and thought it best to err on the side of caution.
“But they were very much at odds with some of the things
I’ve read, and I thought to debate it a little.”
His companion snorted. “Bet that went down a treat. Not
used to debate, our scholar. From what I overheard, you
held your ground well enough though. You’ve made a study
of the hidden city?”
Interestingly, he did not attempt to capitalize the
title, as was the current fashion. “Not quite, no. But I
run the library at Imladris and we have several works on
Gondolin. As they’re written by people who once lived
there, I’ve tended to take them at face value?”
“Ah.” The tall elf leaned against the railing and
regarded him. “So you’re from Imladris? I need to pay
Elrond’s haven a visit one of these days. What brings
you to Mithlond then? Visiting family?”
The eyes were intent, interested, they carried none of
the dismissal Erestor had encountered elsewhere that
evening when he mentioned he came from Imladris, best
known for being a military stronghold in the middle of
nowhere to which Elrond Eärendilion had withdrawn since
the war. It was so far from court, it might as well have
been in Harad. He took a chance, decided on a recitation
of the boring facts.
“Not family, no. Unfortunately.” His family had died in
the assault on Ost-in-Edhil. “I came to buy or beg more
books for the library, specifically about the history of
the Silvan elves if any such can be found. We, that is
Lord Elrond, wants to create a good reference section,
eventually…” His voice trailed off. He could not sound
as interesting as his listener’s expression implied.
“So he’s thinking bigger than just the history of the
Noldor, plus a few novels and a handful of scientific
studies? Interesting.” The tall elf mulled this over
while taking a mouthful from his cup then straightened
up, nodding. “I like the idea. Silvan lore? I never
thought them in the habit of sharing their history?”
Erestor had been trying to learn a bit about their
woodland cousins and could nod and smile with a bit more
confidence than he had brought to the short-lived
discussion on Gondolin. “They have a tradition of oral
history,” he explained, “and a couple of Sindarin
writers have shared what they know of that. I was hoping
to find something closer to source, written perhaps by a
Silvan who had spent time here.”
“I’ve always liked the idea of an oral tradition,
somehow. It’s more personal than book learning. More
like being taught your family history.”
The soft smile that came when he thought of his parents
tugged at Erestor’s lips. “My father did that when we
were small. Sat my sister and me down with him and told
us about our family, traced the line back across the sea
to Aman. Not every night, just now and then when he
wasn’t busy. It was our time, just a father and his
children.”
The other nodded. “I had very little chance to get to
know my father, but I think that is how it should be
done, yes. And then one day you can tell your son in the
same way, and so the tradition would carry on.”
Erestor had a picture for a moment of a line of people
tied by blood, one handing the torch of history on to
the next and realised there might well be no hand beyond
his own. It was not in his nature to be drawn to women
in that manner, thus children were unlikely.
The regret might have shown in his face - Lord Elrond
had mentioned before that he could be quite easy to
read, and he was working on it - because a big hand
rested briefly on his shoulder and his companion said in
a not unkind voice, “Not everyone has family to pass
traditions along to. Keeping the story alive and sharing
it with others close to you would be enough, surely? Now
– you say there are already works about Silvan customs?
Have you managed to read any of these yet? I was always
curious about the bond between them and the land and how
they could yet justify hunting with such ease…”
They had somehow moved past Silvan history and culture
to an animated discussion about forest dwellings and
whether either of them would care to pass the night in
one of those treetop platforms apparently used as homes
in Lorien, when the door squeaked open further and a
young, very worried-looking elf hurried out onto the
balcony. At the sight of them he gave a hearty sigh of
relief. “Sire, I had no idea where you were. You must
come now, please. They are about to begin the speeches
and you wanted to say a few words.”
The elf whose name he had not thought to ask
straightened up and away from Erestor, leaving a feeling
of empty space where he had been. He tossed off the last
of his wine. “Damn. Already? Oh well, time to get back
to work. Courtesy and all that.” He gave Erestor an
engaging smile. “I’m sorry, we never did get around to
introducing ourselves, did we? I was enjoying the
conversation - and the company. What did you say your
name was?”
Erestor blinked at him. “Erestor,” he said finally. “My
name’s Erestor. Forgive me, Your Majesty, I had no
idea…”
He received a look that was brisk and friendly with just
a hint of discomfort. “Yes, sorry about that, bit like a
bad novel, isn’t it? Spend an age talking to a stranger
at a party only to find you’ve analyzed a realm’s ills
to its king. Which you didn’t, that's more my style, but
you know what I mean.” A hand almost but not quite
touched his arm, a look indicated the open door leading
from the dim balcony and clean sea air back into the
brightly-lit world of perfume, courtiers, fine clothes
and jewels. “Come, walk back down with me. We haven’t
finished this yet. Hammock or bedroll?”
~*~*~*~*~
Erestor never imagined Ereinion Gil-galad would find his
company worth cultivating beyond the span of their
initial meeting, but a number of invitations came his
way during his short stay in Mithlond. Once he managed
to get over the shock that the high king of the Noldor
seemed to quite like having him around, he started to
enjoy himself. They shared an almost equal curiosity
about the world in general, and they laughed at the same
jokes. Gil-galad had been surprised to find the
archivist from Imladris was the same Erestor who had
spent two years earning a formidable reputation fighting
in Eregion before settling in the valley haven. In his
turn, Erestor had been rendered speechless by the fact
that the no-nonsense warrior-king could recite poetry.
In Quenya.
In between searching for books - either new or second
hand and within the limited budget Lord Elrond had
authorized - he attended a musical evening at the
palace, saw his first boat race in company with most of
the court, sat with some of the highest-born in the
kingdom during a contest in swordsmanship, and on his
last day was invited to join the king on a dawn ride up
into the soft, rolling hills behind the city.
The party was a mixture of courtiers, high-ranking
warriors, and a few of Gil-galad’s councillors. The
courtiers, who would have braved greater discomforts
than early morning exercise if it gave them a place at
the king’s side, mainly ignored Erestor as an anomaly,
not one of their own. This suited him well enough and as
far as was practical he did likewise.
The view from up in the hills was ethereal; mist still
hovered above the sea, and Mithlond was a fantasy in
pastels and pearl. Sitting his horse in the morning
chill, Erestor looked out over the graceful spires and
domes of the capital of the greatest elven kingdom in
Endor, watching the sun’s light give the mist a silver
sheen. A rider moved up beside him and Gil-galad’s voice
was no surprise.
“Ready to trade your mountain valley for the Lhûn
delta?”
It was becoming a joke between them, that Erestor would
be drawn from Imladris by the lure of life in the big
city. After all, he had been born in Ost-in-Edhil, a
city of surpassing beauty and innovation before the
sack. Erestor turned, trying to hide his smile. “Not
quite, your Majesty. Mithlond is lovely, especially at
this hour, but the ruggedness and newness of Imladris is
home to me. We may lack the sea, but we do have
waterfalls.”
They shared a grin. Noting the laughter lines that
crinkled the corners of Gil-galad’s eyes and faced with
the already legendary charm of his smile, Erestor felt a
slight pang at the thought of the road back east that
beckoned as soon as the last bag of books had been
loaded onto the wagon. His exit from Mithlond would mark
the end of an interlude, and he would be forgotten
within the week.
“When do you leave?” Quiet, serious. Gil-galad’s public
face tended towards the bluff, cheerful and easygoing.
This felt different, both in tone and in the searching
look in those light blue eyes. This was the king whose
astute mind and canny wit had built Lindon into a great
power, and whose true concerns lay a world away from the
courtly entertainments he encouraged and often funded.
“Some time before lunch, I hope,” Erestor replied,
quieting his horse who was growing steadily uneasy at
the proximity of the king’s mount, a stallion curiously
named Valen, “We need to be well on the road before
night falls. There’s a good, sheltered spot to rest the
horses and I’d like to reach it before sundown.”
“You’re taking an escort, right? Just because the war’s
over doesn’t mean there aren’t all kinds of ugliness
still roaming Eriador.” The warrior who had cleared out
orc nests during the War of Wrath knew all about the
evil Morgoth’s lieutenant might have left wandering the
open spaces between the mountains.
Erestor gave him a look caught between a laugh and a
frown. “Your majesty, there are three of us, myself, the
regular courier and a warrior with more experience in
the last war than myself. We will be armed and vigilant,
I assure you.”
Those intent eyes held him again, then the king looked
out across his capital. “Good,” Gil-galad said briskly.
“That’s good. And you’ll be back when?”
When? Erestor had only the vaguest idea. “A few months,”
he hazarded. “It – depends on Lord Elrond, on when he
thinks we’re ready for another purchase.” Imladris was
still new, still finding its feet, still struggling for
a place in Lindon’s cycle of trade. Erestor suspected,
nay, knew, there was very little money to spare. The
library was still treated as a luxury, the Lord’s
personal indulgence.
Another nod. “Good. Let me know when you’re back. Just
tell Laegon.” Laegon was the royal aide, nobly born, who
looked so far down his nose at Erestor it was only a
matter of time before he toppled over while doing so.
“We still have to decide the truth of that story about
the ice giants in the far north, the one I was so fond
of in childhood and that you say is a load of horse
droppings.”
~*~*~*~*~
It took a while to settle back into the slow-moving life
in Imladris that he had previously treasured, and
several months passed before finances allowed Erestor to
take the road to Mithlond again. Lord Elrond’s
enthusiasm for the library had already made the
difference between a once yearly purchase and more
regular visits, and Erestor’s casual mention that
variety required frequent calls on the more reputable
copyists and retailers in the capital fell on receptive
ears. Imladris might be a quasi-independent entity, or
so the official papers said, but it was held in the
king’s name, and everyone referred to Mithlond as ‘the
capital’.
With his unconventional introduction to court life in
mind, Erestor spent the first two days in Mithlond
visiting book sellers while summoning up the courage to
approach Laegon. Eventually, fully expecting to be sent
on his way with a snooty glare, he put on his good
clothes, which still fell rather short of the standard
for court casual, and took the long walk to the palace.
Finding the king’s aide took him almost as long again,
but to his surprise when he finally succeeded he was
given no more than a disapproving stare, asked to wait a
few minutes, and then handed a list of court activities
for the next month. He was free to attend whatever took
his fancy, he was told, except of course evening
entertainments in the royal apartments, which were by
invitation only.
According to the list, the following evening offered a
display of dancing by a troupe newly arrived from
Harlond. Decision taken, Erestor began to consider his
wardrobe with rising unease. There was no call for
courtly clothing in Imladris, and he had a list of
personal necessities to purchase from a purse that would
not stretch to include fashionable extras. Finally he
decided on the simplicity of a dark green tunic, tight
black pants, and his good boots. His hair he wore
clipped loosely back from his face.
He considered the result in the mirror, wishing he
looked less like someone’s country relative. He tried
twisting a string of garnets through his hair as the
king did rubies, but either he lacked the knack or else
one strand was insufficient. Shaking his head he gave up
with a rueful grin. Eyes the exact shade of good dwarf
brandy laughed back from the mirror. At least his hair,
a waist length fall of very unelven black curls, was
behaving itself for once; on a bad day the sea air
rendered it unmanageable.
He forced himself not to wonder if the king would even
notice him in amongst all the usual finery. It had been
a few months and life was busy here, people came and
went. He might have been on some kind of a list as
Laegon’s actions had implied, but that meant nothing,
nothing at all.
The performance was staged in the great courtyard in the
centre of the palace complex, often used for such events
as it was easily accessible and sheltered from the wind.
Its prosaic daytime appearance had been transformed by
strings of tiny, many-coloured lanterns and an array of
silken banners. Seating was provided for the well-born
and the determined, everyone else sat on cushions which
they brought themselves. Erestor had not thought to do
so and in any event, being of slightly less than average
height and finding himself near the back, preferred to
stand.
Gil-galad had the best place, of course, and was
surrounded by a group of close intimates, or so it might
be assumed from the conversation going on around him. It
was easy to see when the king told a joke; everybody
laughed.
The first part of the evening involved tumbling and
juggling and a preliminary dance, which had to do with a
flock of swallows flying south for the winter. The
dancers were dressed in grey and white and certainly
made the most of the available space. To Erestor it all
looked energetic but rather pointless. After this, a
short intermission was announced while props were set in
place for the main piece. Erestor was steeling himself
to try and penetrate the crowd around the table offering
snacks and wine when he heard his name called, followed
by a hand on his arm.
“Master Erestor? Master Erestor from Imladris?” The
young page was even shorter than he was, with big,
worried eyes and fluffy brown hair. Barely giving
Erestor a chance to nod, he pushed his arm to indicate
he should turn round and pointed. “Over there. His
Majesty says you’re to go present yourself. Quickly,
before the dancers come back. Did you want food? I’ll
get you something. Just – go.”
Erestor realised he was standing with his mouth hanging
open and hurriedly closed it. He started to speak to the
page, but the boy had already plunged into the crush
around the refreshments table. Erestor made his way
through the milling crowd, trying to think of something
sensible to say when he reached the elite group he had
been summoned to join, but as it turned out there was no
need. As he crossed the open space people were being
careful to leave between themselves and the royal party,
Gil-galad looked round, saw him and rose. Even in the
uncertain light of the courtyard, Erestor could see the
twinkle in those blue eyes. Next moment he was being
clapped firmly on the shoulder.
“Gods, you’ve been gone an age. When did you get back?
Well met, Erestor. Where were you sitting? Are you with
anyone? No? Come, join us. Arthon - up. Give him your
seat, you’ve spent the day with that behind of yours
firmly planted on cushions, I’ll wager.” And back to
Erestor: “Right then, what are you drinking?”
~*~*~*~*~
And thus was the pattern of Erestor’s life set. A few
months in Imladris, the ten day journey to the delta,
three weeks, maybe a month in Mithlond buying books, and
then the return to the Valley of Rainbows.
Sometimes when he was at home in Imladris he would gaze
out across the valley or watch the river leaping down
the waterfall just before it passed the house and ponder
how he had split into these two quite dissimilar people.
There was quiet, efficient Erestor who copied and
catalogued books, hiked or rode about the valley for
exercise, and liked to share a cup of wine of an evening
with friends and colleagues in the Hall of Fire. And
then there was an elf of the same name who had ridden
and even sparred with Ereinion Gil-galad, had a place
within the inner circle at court functions, and was
being sporadically tutored in chess by the king himself.
When he was in Imladris, the Mithlond Erestor seemed
almost unreal, a being from a dream who happened to look
and sound rather like him. When he was in Mithlond,
there was no such confusion; he lived each moment as it
was offered to him and avoided any thought of the morrow
and the long road back to the Valley.
And sometimes when he gazed out across the valley or
watched the river leaping down the waterfall, he found
himself falling into daydreams of blue eyes that danced
with humour, and a teasing, intimate smile that promised
all was right with the world. He reasoned this was only
to be expected with someone as charismatic as the king.
Had anyone suggested these were the symptoms of somebody
nurturing a sizeable crush, he would have been highly
indignant.
~*~*~*~*~
With winter starting to make its presence felt in Lindon,
court life turned more towards indoor activities. One
such day provided a memory he revisited often when he
was back home in Imladris and busy with the repetitive
tasks of writing summaries and cataloging books in the
library while the snow lay thick on the ground outside.
He had presented himself at the palace to find the
scheduled ride cancelled due to the weather. Instead he
was directed to the smaller, private salon which was
open only to accredited courtiers, not to the public at
large. Someone was playing soft airs on a harp,
conversation buzzed in a civilized manner on scented
air. Sometimes the king was busy with other concerns and
spent only a short while in his company, but this time
Gil-galad had a chess board set up and waiting on a
small table under one of the long windows that looked
out onto the dismal vista of a wet garden and a grey,
uninviting sea.
Erestor was directed to the table and left to watch the
raindrops sliding down the window while the king
finished a conversation with a small group that
including his treasurer, Gurmaeron, and a member of his
Council. Erestor could see the shipyard across the bay,
Lord Círdan’s domain, and if he stared hard enough
through the rain could just make out what looked like
one of the great seafaring vessels in the dock. When the
king returned and took the chair opposite, he turned
back from the window with a slow smile of welcome.
Gil-galad filled any space he entered, the table
suddenly felt very small and the room far warmer, the
grey locked outside by the vibrant energy that seemed to
surround the high king.
“Sorry about that. Something that should have been
sorted out earlier. Gurmaeron fusses like an old woman.”
Erestor was still learning the game and had first move,
which theoretically gave him a very slight advantage. He
tried a new opening, hoping for the best. “I was
watching the sea. Is that ship making ready to cross to
Aman?”
Frowning at the piece, Gil-galad shook his head
disapprovingly and offered a counter. “Strange move. Oh,
that’d be the Heron. She’ll leave at week’s end. I plan
to watch her sail, want to come along?”
“I’m due to leave then,” Erestor said uncertainly,
toying with his Priestess.
Gil-galad seemed about to query the proposed move, but
Erestor was left to advance his piece unhindered as Lord
Aravilui, another councillor, came over to them. He
launched into discussion with the king, acting as though
Erestor was invisible, not surprising as the court as a
whole tended to ignore him. Early on, the belief had
taken root that the king went out of his way to spend
time with him when he was in Mithlond as a courtesy to
the Viceroy in the north, his cousin Elrond. Mostly, as
soon as it was made clear he had no personal influence,
people lost interest.
After a brief, cheery exchange with Lord Aravilui about
the possibility of the king attending a dinner to honour
the Weavers Guild, Gil-galad turned back to his game,
effectively dismissing his councillor. When the lord had
moved off – slowly and reluctantly – Gil-galad resumed
their conversation as though there had been no
interruption. Erestor was regularly in awe of his
ability to hold a thread intact whilst dealing with
another matter entirely. “One more day makes no
difference, Erestor. Tell Elrond you were tracking down
some rare work or other if you need a reason.”
Erestor glanced up at him, startled. “I wouldn’t lie to
him, Sire. I don’t think he’d mind that I wanted to
watch a ship set sail for Aman. Though I’ll have to talk
to the courier, find out what he thinks about the
weather. I need to get back before winter sets in.”
The king considered the board, moved a piece in
response, then his eyes met Erestor’s. “No, no you
wouldn’t lie to him,” he agreed. “You’re honest - in
your words, in your dress, in your actions. Tell him I
invited you, that should be enough.”
“My dress?” Erestor glanced down. He now had a tiny
selection of garments he mentally labeled ‘court wear’.
They were all good quality, all plain but well cut, with
nothing to set them apart or make them stand out. Today
he had expected to ride and had dressed accordingly in a
blue tunic with a plain leather belt worn over a soft
green shirt and dark pants.
“Yes.” Gil-galad rested his chin on his fist and looked
at him properly. “No cheap jewellery or fancy
embroidery, no trying to keep up with fashion. You wear
things that fit you well in colours that compliment fair
skin and dark hair. No pretending to be someone you’re
not. Honest.”
Erestor smiled ruefully. “Truly, Sire? I only spend a
few months of the year here and do not earn enough to
justify keeping up with fashion. I just try my best to
be neat and not embarrass myself. I have very little
jewellery, and I wear dark colours because they seem to
stand outside of fashion. They might not excite
admiration, but they are also unlikely to be as out of
place as... lavender, two months after yellow becomes
the season’s colour.”
They glanced as one down the room to where one of the
ladies was resplendent in last season’s colour, looked
away and exchanged sheepish grins. “Lavender’s out, is
it?” Gil-galad asked. “I never quite manage to keep up
with these things.”
“You don’t have to,” Erestor pointed out carefully.
“You’re the king. If you woke up tomorrow and decided
you wanted to dress in lavender, it would be all the
rage again by nightfall.”
Gil-galad rested fingers atop a pawn, tapping it
lightly, and looked thoughtful. “Yessss. That is about
the size of it, how it works. But– you would still wear
green, wouldn’t you?”
“If the new fashion were lavender?” Erestor asked. ”Yes,
of course. I’d have to. Again. Anyhow, I have a sense I
would look terrible in it.”
The king released the piece, rested folded arms on the
edge of the table and leaned forward so their faces were
unexpectedly close. Blue eyes held Erestor’s. “And if I
needed to be told an uncomfortable truth about how I
looked in that lavender I’d set my heart on, you would
get on and do it, wouldn’t you? No flattery, no
placating?”
Erestor drew a breath, unable to look away. “I would
always tell you the truth,” he said quietly. “I know you
well enough to be certain it would be taken in good
part. You would never punish criticism if it was
well-intentioned.”
Gil-galad’s eyes stayed serious and a question lurked in
their depths. He seemed about to say more on the matter,
but two ladies paused to greet him and when he turned
back, the more familiar look of genial amusement had
returned. “Good. I’ll hold you to that. Truly? Lavender
couldn’t look any worse on you than it does on me. Tried
it once, decided I could get by without being in the
forefront of fashion. Oh, and that move with the
Priestess?” A piece was advanced, and the Priestess
vanished into a large, competent fist. “Bad idea. You’re
good with a sword, you’re well read, your dress sense is
sound, and you have nice hair. But your chess strategy?
That needs work.”
~*~*~*~*~
The following three months saw Erestor along with
everyone else penned in Imladris, which settled early
under a heavy blanket of snow. It was spring, with the
thaw still in progress, before he could finally justify
taking the familiar trail back to Mithlond. He had spent
the final month quietly irritable with life, a mood
foreign to his nature, but had been careful not to put a
name or explanation to it beyond that well-know culprit,
mid-winter depression.
Gil-galad’s court had not changed appreciably during his
absence. Some old faces were missing, and there was a
smattering of new. Lord Círdan was present, which was
unusual though not unheard of; the Shore Lord liked to
keep his own side of the bay amongst his own people.
Officially Mithlond covered both shores of the Gulf,
palace facing shipyard across a narrow expanse of water
and joined by a regular and meticulously run ferry
service, but in truth the high king’s writ stopped where
the Telerin’s influence began. The division apparently
harked back to the days on Balar, but Erestor had never
felt forward enough to ask for details.
He was welcomed back in the usual way, with Gil-galad
spotting him from across the room and hailing him
loudly, causing more than a few heads to turn. “Heard
Imladris turned into a prison for a time back there. The
couriers couldn’t get through, no one could get out.
All’s well with my cousin?”
Erestor made his way across, and for a moment all he
could see were light blue eyes that sparkled with wit
and pleasure at his presence. That moment was all it
took for him finally to know the truth. He breathed in,
let it out. “Well enough, Sire. He asked to be
remembered to you. I believe there was a letter.”
“Oh, right. Laegon must have it for me. Well, come on,
join us. We were talking about Midhiel‘s new paintings.”
“I don’t think they’d be familiar with Midhiel’s work in
Imladris, Ereinion.” The voice was light, confident. She
had been absent from court for much of the previous
year, but Erestor knew her by sight; Ormeril, the Noldor-dark
daughter of Gil-galad’s treasurer. Tall, slender,
exquisitely dressed, she looked at him and through him
before turning her flawless face up to the king and
smiling. “Though listening to you experienced patrons
argue is always an education.”
“Erestor will see her work soon enough, Ormeril,” the
king said mildly. “But you’re quite right, no harm in
hearing a few considered opinions first. Someone get
Master Erestor a cup of wine. Now, you were saying,
Arthon?”
~*~*~*~*~
There were always court ladies hanging onto the high
king’s every word, this had been obvious since the day
Erestor met him. Young for the most part, noble or from
influential homes, promoted at court by families hungry
for advancement and seeing the clearest route resting in
the crown matrimonial. In Erestor’s limited experience
they came and went, and Gil-galad was pleasant, charming
even, without offering favour to one above the others.
Ormeril was different. Vivacious, witty, elegant, all
long neck, good jewellery and tasteful cleavage, she was
beside the king at every event, gathering or
entertainment he attended. Erestor gritted his teeth and
fought the urge to leave the room at sight of her.
After more than a week in Mithlond, he had only spent
random moments alone with the king. Not that he expected
to be the centre of attention after his absence, just –
he had assumed something similar to what had gone
before, which involved talking quietly while they rode
together or over a game of chess, or sudden, animated
exchanges about some matter that had caught one or the
other’s attention. Now Ormeril kept close to the king’s
side, riding, walking, at court functions – dancing.
He arrived one morning to find Ormeril at the centre of
a group around the king, all deep in discussion about
the festivities planned for that night to celebrate the
marriage of the son and daughter of two of Lindon's
wealthiest families. Talk ranged from rumours of exotic
gifts to stories about catering and the size of the
wedding party. Erestor stood on the outskirts, tempted
to make his excuses and leave but loathe to surrender
the field to a rival. He could have sworn Gil-galad was
unaware of his presence, but suddenly he was the
recipient of that smile and a look of friendly interest.
He felt as though his heart had leapt into his throat.
“So. And what do you think, Erestor? Was it really a
camel being led into the groom’s family stables? What
will you be wearing tonight? Scarlet and black?” It was
a joke between them, the closest thing Erestor had to
formal attire was a scarlet robe worn over a black
shirt.
“It could be a camel, Sire, though if there is only one,
it faces a lonely life here in the north,” Erestor said,
resisting the urge to shrug. Why anyone would give
someone a camel, a creature of the extreme south, as a
wedding gift was beyond him, but people will do strange
things to prove their wealth and creativity. As the
gifter might be present, he kept his thoughts to
himself. “And were I on the guest list, that would be my
choice, but as a casual visitor to the capital I hardly
expected an invitation.”
Neither family probably even knew he existed, which he
would have said had it just been the two of them. Pride
forbad him from confessing as much in present company.
Gil-galad wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Not invited?
Oh, I’ll soon fix that. In fact, easiest way is if you
just come along with me tonight. Can’t see them having
trouble feeding one more.”
“Olwen told me her father was being quite strict about
the guest list, Ereinion,” Ormeril cut in smoothly, all
court grace and familiarity. “Plus, I doubt - Erestor -
has anything suitable to wear at such short notice.
There would be no call for formal party clothes in a
place like Imladris. With respect to your cousin, of
course.” She smiled brilliantly up at Gil-galad as she
spoke, an obvious ploy to soften any possible slur on
Elrond, of whom the king was known to be very fond. Her
remark stung, it burned, but not as much as the way
Gil-galad responded, indulgently amused.
He muttered something about already having plans for the
evening and wondered if Gil-galad even heard him. He
always thought of him as that, ever since the day the
king had said his epessë, ‘descendant of kings’, put him
in mind of a race horse or prize bull, even though it
was considered proof of a close connection to call him
such. Ereinion had been the gift of his great-aunt
Galadriel; his mother had called him Gil-galad.
Erestor stayed on the edge of the circle for a while
longer, watching Ormeril flirt and smile and chatter and
Gil-galad respond laughingly to most of it and generally
pander to her. When he could no longer bear to watch, he
detached himself wordlessly and left.
~*~*~*~*~
The room Erestor used when he was in Mithlond was one of
a number located in an unfashionable corridor near the
main entrance to the palace. It was small, sparsely
furnished, and had been Gil-galad’s gift one night when
he realised how far Erestor had to walk back to his
previous lodgings. With nothing to do and all court
activities cancelled for the evening, Erestor had sought
its privacy early, taking himself to bed with a book. He
read till late, trying his best not to get sidetracked
into his own thoughts.
The rapping on his door woke him eventually. He
struggled out of dreamlessness and barely had the
presence of mind to light the lamp before going to
investigate. The open door revealed Gil-galad, hair
loose, a dark cloak thrown over his clothing, his hand
raised to knock again. Erestor stood gaping, but before
he could say anything the king pushed past him, closing
the door with a sharp click of the latch.
“Where were you? I turned away and when I looked back
you were gone.”
Erestor blinked at him, trying to wake up and get to
grips with the reality of Ereinion Gil-galad in his
bedroom in the middle of the night. “I… you were busy,
Sire, and I doubted you’d notice. It seemed rude to
interrupt Lady Ormeril.”
“What the… what has Ormeril to do with you not saying
goodbye? You always say goodbye. For all I knew, you’d
decided to go back to Imladris early or something. You
weren’t there after lunch, you weren’t at the wedding…”
Confusion made him blunt. “I would never leave for
Imladris without saying so. And I told you, I wasn’t
invited to the wedding.”
“And I told you to come with me, no invitation
necessary.” Gil-galad’s lips compressed briefly and he
lowered his voice again to something more suited to hour
and place. “What is the matter with you?” he growled.
“Has something happened? We’ve barely spoken since you
got back.”
Any number of replies chased their way around Erestor’s
head, but in the end he settled on the one that said it
best while being the least embarrassing. “You have very
little time to spare, Sire, and seem to prefer other
company? I was never much good at pushing myself forward
where I am not welcome.”
The lamp flame flickered, the shadows in the room leapt
and danced. Even so, the indignation on the king’s face
was patent, his voice sharp. “Not welcome? What are you
talking about? Where are you not welcome?”
Gil-galad moved further into the room, radiating
tension. Erestor stared at him, wordless. He wondered
distractedly how he looked to the king, hair unbound and
wearing nothing more than an old shirt that doubled as
sleepwear, but that was low on his present list of
priorities. Later he could berate himself for his
appearance. They were near the door, the bed was
opposite, under the window. Other than that the room
held a nightstand, a small clothes chest, a table
stacked with books, a chair. It offered no distractions,
no way to avoid the question, so finally he answered
with simple honesty. “Lady Ormeril has most of your
attention, Sire, and finds my presence tedious.”
The silence was so absolute it was almost tangible. The
king’s personal guard patrolled the palace grounds at
night, but otherwise nothing stirred. Inside the small,
functional room the lamp dimmed before the light once
more steadied. Gil-galad was staring at him, his face
unreadable. Erestor felt cold and empty. He stood
waiting for impatience perhaps, or one of the king’s
more colourful oaths. And then, not for the first time,
Gil-galad surprised him. He laughed, a single, startled
bark of laughter. “You are keeping your distance because
Ormeril finds you – tedious? Why in the world would you
care what Ormeril thinks? She won’t be the first or the
last to wonder what you’re doing in my immediate
circle.”
“Yes, but they say in time she will be first lady of the
Noldor.”
Erestor heard himself as though from a great distance.
This was not something one should repeat to the king,
and it had not crossed his mind to do so when similar
rumours had circulated concerning Daerris, whose father
oversaw the grain harvest. But Daerris was by nature a
modest girl and the current whispers were entirely
different, due as much to Ormeril’s reputation, he
supposed, as to their content.
Gil-galad was staring at him. Finally, when Erestor felt
ready to sink through the floor would it just do him the
favour of opening up at his feet, the king reached out a
hand and strong fingers wound through a lock of his hair
and tugged. “You think Ormeril is on her way to becoming
Queen of Lindon?” he asked flatly.
“I – so they say, Sire.”
They faced one another, Erestor feeling the colour
flooding his face, while Gil-galad’s expression softened
from grimness through to something horribly close to
amusement. “You have got to be joking. Ormeril?”
“I think she would be less likely to find it funny,
Sire, she acts as though…”
“She turns up her well-bred nose at everyone who wasn’t
born on the other side of the ocean or who cannot at
least trace their descent back to Finwe. And you let
that bother you, because…?”
“I suppose I know my place?”
Gil-galad went very still, staring down at him. Watching
his eyes darken, Erestor felt as though the air was
being sucked out of the room. It was like balancing on a
knife edge, tipping slowly, inexorably over into the
next moment, into the thing that steady look promised.
Then the hand left his hair and grabbed his upper arm
instead, dragging him forward. Next moment he was being
crushed against that broad chest, and Gil-galad’s lips
were claiming his own hungrily.
“Your place?” the king grated against Erestor’s mouth,
his voice uneven. “Your place is here, with me, in my
arms. No other – there has been no other.”
“But…”
A hand under his chin forced him to look up. Gil-galad’s
voice was deliberate, his gaze intense, cutting through
the jumbled whirl of thoughts and questions. Erestor
could feel him breathing, feel the swift rise and fall
against him. “Now listen to me, you. Ormeril’s father is
in the last stages of negotiating a very desirable match
for her. It was a secret, she needed to distract
attention. I was lonely, needed diversion... I’ve known
her for years, we enjoy one another’s company. Nothing
more.”
While he spoke his free hand was busy exploring
Erestor’s hair, letting the soft curls slide through his
fingers. The hand cupping his face moved, careful
fingers brushing the bridge of his nose and out across
his cheek – softly, a touch like cobweb that sent
shivers whispering through him. “I have wanted to feel
your hair, your skin, for months. That scattering of
freckles – just there. Wanted to touch… like this. You
have no idea…”
“I thought – you seemed so at ease in her company.”
Erestor rested the palm of his hand flat on Gil-galad’s
chest. The king was warm, solid, yet he could still
barely believe the dream had been made reality so
suddenly, so utterly. “It – I felt invisible…”
Gil-galad pulled him back for another endless, starving
kiss. “Don’t be stupid, that’s how she treats everyone,”
he said gruffly when they finally paused for breath. “I
didn't realise you were taking it seriously, just that
you were distant, always seemed just out of reach.
Bored, almost. I thought you knew, thought you
understood… Spending time with a suitable girl, it
distracts people, makes them think I’m just picky, not
that - not that marriage is the last thing I could ever
want. I would never deliberately have hurt you…”
It was a rushed, almost frantic coupling. The heat that
flared in the pit of Erestor’s stomach spread outwards
right to his fingertips, blocking any further attempt to
make sense of what was happening. All he knew were hard,
demanding hands tangling in his hair, rubbing circles
over his back, moving lower to cup his buttocks and draw
him close as Gil-galad ground against him, panting,
needful, his mouth ravishing Erestor's face and neck.
Erestor returned kiss for kiss, touch for clasp, barely
remembering to breathe.
They somehow found their way across the room, clothing
discarded on the way – somewhat more of Gil-galad’s than
of Erestor’s as he was naked beneath the shirt, which
fact earned a grunt of satisfaction. They collapsed onto
the bed in a confusion of disjointed whispers, mouths
tasting, hands groping, exploring briefly, before
Gil-galad reached down between them, grasping him and
Erestor both with rough fingers and set to jerking them
off, breaking free of Erestor’s mouth so he could lean
up and watch his hand’s work. His other arm remained
tight around Erestor, who lay writhing and gasping in
its embrace.
For what seemed an eternity he rode the flame-bright
edge of ecstasy, then thick, dark hair fell like a cloud
around his face and a long kiss carried him through to
completion.
~*~*~*~*~
After, they lay in the narrow bed, Erestor half atop of
Gil-galad whose fingers roved over him, stroking and
petting gently.
“You were jealous. How did I miss that?” Amused,
Gil-galad idly ran his hand down Erestor’s arm before
returning once more to the tumble of long, black curls.
“Not... jealous exactly.” Erestor turned his head to
press his cheek against Gil-galad’s shoulder and
tightened an arm around his waist. “Hurt, I suppose, and
a bit lost. And feeling inadequate and embarrassed, and
not knowing how to get your attention without looking
like a child shouting ‘look at me, look at me’.”
A soft snort of laughter brushed his cheek. “And I
started to feel you were only here because you thought
you had no choice and were bored, bored with me, with
the shallowness of life at court. I even thought maybe
there was someone at home - not a girl, I was fairly
sure of that, but some young warrior perhaps, someone
who needn't hide his true tastes from a Council
determined someday to see a royal heir.”
Erestor shook his head, kissed Gil-galad’s neck.
“Hardly. Most of the warriors in Imladris are married
anyway. I spent most of winter trying to fool myself
into believing I wasn’t desperate to get back here to
see you. Never thought you could miss someone the way I
missed you…”
A half-turn had him on his back. The king leaned over
him, the mane of dark hair once again shutting out the
world. A finger traced his lips, the line of his face up
to his cheekbone, then around his eye to his eyebrow.
Erestor smiled into the touch and reached up to rest a
hand on the back of Gil-galad’s neck. Their bodies
adjusted to the new space and pose, the king’s sex
resting heavy against his thigh. Lips touched his
forehead, a caress more than a kiss. “I’ve loved you for
months. Every time you leave, the days stretch endless
till you return. I know all about missing someone.”
“But you never said a word.”
Gil-galad gave him look for look, then spoke carefully,
as though fearing another misunderstanding. “I was just
- overwhelmed when I realised what I felt for you. Not
lust as I’d been telling myself, but...love, the real
thing? I had an instinct from the start not to do
anything that would make you think I was trying to use
you. When I understood my heart, I knew why.” He laughed
ruefully, a hand stroking Erestor’s hair back from his
face. “Believe me, the fact that nothing happened before
wasn’t through lack of interest.”
Erestor settled under him, feeling the beginnings of new
desire already stirring his loins. “How long?” he asked.
It was more than a simple request for a date, a span of
time, and Gil-galad took it as intended. “How long have
I known I loved you? Oh, months ago. You won’t remember.
We were playing chess, talking, it was raining outside,
you smiled at me and promised always to tell me the
truth…”
“Even if you wore lavender. I remember.”
“You do?” He sounded pleased. “Good. Thought I was the
only one here obsessively remembering every word, every
look. Well, from then. Though I've wanted to do this to
you since the night we met.” He emphasized ‘this’ with a
thrust of his hips, and reawakened hardness grazed
Erestor’s belly. Erestor grinned, undulated against him.
He was young enough for love still to be a new
experience, and for the first time in his life he felt
really desirable, sensual, with an urge to test his
powers. He was not disappointed, a sharply indrawn
breath signaled his success.
“Tease,” Gil-galad chuckled. “You’ll pay for that. What
about you? How long? Or did it really take Ormeril to
finally open your eyes?”
Erestor shook his head, rubbed it catlike against Gil-galad’s
shoulder, drew him down for a kiss. “That first night
when we were talking about Lorien, about sleeping on a
flet? I knew who I wanted to share that flet with. It
grew from that, but once I knew who you were I put it
out of my mind, it was too impossible. It was – it was
enough just to be close to you, to have your friendship.
I never expected more. But when I saw someone else might
have it all --- can only hide from the truth for so
long.”
“I owe Ormeril the kind of binding gift they’ll be
talking about for years to come,” Gil-galad chuckled.
“Something tasteful but very, very glittery. “ He
sobered. “You – do realise no one can know, don’t you?
The smallest chance that I might one day finally wed is
enough to keep all sorts of people in check and to hint
at any number of alliances. It’s not just a social
issue, it’s a political tool, and one I can’t afford to
lay down, either. Not even for love. Two men together,
living quietly, the continuance of their line no matter
of any urgency – most people will accept that. Love is a
gift from the One, after all. But – kings are
different.”
Erestor smiled up at him, hands busy brushing back hair,
touching skin, simply because he could. “No one will
know, I have no need to display you as a trophy. Just so
long as I have your heart and we can find time to share,
I will have all I could ever want.”
“Trust me?” Gil-galad’s voice was husky, the hand
kneading Erestor’s shoulder suggestive and almost-rough.
“I trust you. Always. If you tell me this is real, if
you tell me there is no other, that is all I need. I
trust you.”
“Nothing will ever be more real to me than this.” The
hand stilled, the low voice was solemn, absolute. “Next
month, next year… a thousand years in the future.”
Erestor reached up, made a futile attempt to push the
curtain of thick, dark hair out of the way, and
Gil-galad grinned at him, turned to kiss the palm of his
hand. “Now then – let’s take things slowly this time. I
need to check if you have any more of those adorable
freckles in – less public places.”
~*~*~*~*~
“You’ll be missed of course,” Gil-galad said, his voice
pitched loud enough to reach anyone in the immediate
vicinity who was paying attention. “You’ll be back for
the summer, right? Be a pity to miss Lady Ormeril’s
wedding. I hear it’s to be quite a spectacle.”
Erestor smiled politely. “I’m sure it will be, Sire,
though I’m not certain I’ll find myself on the guest
list.”
“Oh, I think you can assume you will,” Gil-galad assured
him, his glance more than casually amused. “You can
always show up as a member of my party if it comes to
that. Don’t laugh, Erestor. I’m serious.”
“Yes, Majesty. I suppose I will have to start
considering a suitable gift then.”
“Oh – yes, gift. Almost forgot.” Gil-galad explored
pockets, coming up with a tiny parcel wrapped in
shimmery lavender cloth. “Here it is,” he said
triumphantly. “Knew you were leaving, made sure I’d
remember to bring it along.” He held it out. “In case
you don’t get back before Midsummer’s Day, here’s
something small to mark the holiday.”
Erestor opened his mouth to say midsummer wasn’t for
months yet, caught the look of devilment dancing in
bright eyes and smiled instead. “Thank you, Sire. You
are – most thoughtful. May I open it or should I keep it
for the day?”
“Oh, go ahead, open it now. It’s just something small
anyhow… for luck.” Gil-galad, renowned for being neither
superstitious nor sentimental, waited, watching him.
Erestor unwrapped the cloth carefully and looked down at
what lay in the palm of his hand. No jewels fit for a
royal favourite, nothing to excite attention beyond a
shrug at the vagaries of the king’s whim. An enamelled
pendant, rectangular in shape, coloured in swirls of
rose, purple and, yes, lavender. Upon the front the
letter E had been etched within a five pointed star, and
it hung from a simple but strong leather thong of the
kind the king sometimes used to tie back his hair when
he was out riding.
It was neatly made, but suggested the work of a careful
amateur rather than the accomplished craftsmen who would
normally produce wares for Lindon’s king.
“E for Erestor,” he said with a smile. Or Ereinion.
“Thank you, Sire.”
“The star’s for luck,” explained Gil-galad, serious for
a moment, “surrounding your name with its light.”
Starlight, Star's Radiance - Gil-galad. Erestor looked
away before his eyes could speak secrets for the entire
court to read. “I think this star will bring me all the
luck I could ever wish for,” he replied softly. “And I
could grow quite partial to lavender.”
~*~*~*~*~
Tol Eressëa, sometime early in the 4th Age.
“And it really brought you luck?” a voice asked softly.
Erestor returned reluctantly from memories of the Second
Age and smiled down at the girl who lay on the grass at
his feet, looking up at him with dreamy eyes. For once,
even her brothers were quiet. They were getting older
now, which left them more appreciative of the subtleties
of a love story, although this provided new reasons to
gloss over a few of the more intimate details – Erestor
had been careful in his telling to skip from that first
kiss straight to the public leave-taking.
“Of course, Gelireth,” he told her, amused. “My life has
been blessed with good luck ever since. And love. Oh,
there were difficult times, like when the king rested in
Mandos while I continued working for your grandfather in
Imladris – you know all about that, too – but I knew at
the end we would meet again here, and the years flew
past faster than you might imagine. The luck held true,
and the love was forever.”
In the near distance he could hear laughing voices, the
sounds of swimmers returning up the path from the beach.
He had decided against the lure of Aman’s azure blue
ocean and the accompanying risk of sunburn, preferring
to pass the time with Elladan’s children outside the
rambling house their father had begun building soon
after his arrival on Tol Eressëa.
Gil-galad came into view, striding up the path with
Elladan and Elrond. They were followed by Glorfindel,
newly arrived on Tol Eressëa and whose golden locks drew
the eye in that dark-haired company. He spotted them
under the trees and waved, calling out a greeting, and
as always Gil-galad’s eyes went immediately to Erestor.
They shared a look that was private and exchanged
smiles, much as they had the day they finally met again
in Tirion shortly after Erestor’s arrival. It was
Erestor’s claim that he had been the one doing all the
looking, while Gil-galad would just smile and shrug and
say he might not have met every ship that arrived from
the east, but he had never doubted they would find one
another in the end.
“Love also makes its own luck,” Erestor told the girl,
offering her his hand as he rose, turning to wait for
Gil-galad, wet and cheerful, to come over and kiss him
hello. “And forever is a good long while to spend
enjoying it. Come on, up you get. Time to go in and see
if your mother needs our help with lunch. ”
*needs to stop here, not really the
end*
~*~*~*~*~
Beta: Red
Lasbelin
AN: For
Fimbrethiel in the Ardor in August 2009 swap.
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