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'The Painter'

The Painter

Gil-galad had spent the best part of an hour trying to discreetly search the palace grounds for Glorfindel, and was beginning to wonder how someone that tall and with hair that bright could simply vanish when an observant cleaner finally suggested he try up on the roof. Not a destination that would have occurred to him, though it began to make sense when he found his quarry, who was busy in one of the more sheltered corners where benches had been set out so that those receiving attention from the healers could relax and enjoy the benefits of sunlight and fresh sea air.

Glorfindel, dressed very casually and with his wavy blonde hair drawn back into a long, untidy ponytail, had staked out a small work area for himself and was concentrating intently on the task at hand. He had taken up painting at Erestor’s suggestion after he had somehow disclosed to the elf with the amber eyes and natural gift for interrogation that he had enjoyed this hobby for a time as a child. That had been until his father had discovered his interest and put a stop to it, stating it was an unnecessarily frivolous occupation for the son of a lord.

To Glorfindel’s amazement, everyone who had seen his attempts – in other words Gil-galad, Elrond, Erestor, several of the staff and, by chance, Galadriel – seemed to believe he had real talent. His current work, more ambitious than the little still lifes and quick portrait sketches which he had contented himself with till now, was an attempt to capture the view from the roof. Not of the sea, whose varied shades and changing contrasts of light and shadow still defeated him, but rather the patchwork effect of the farmlands that spread from the edge of the growing town off into the north west.

Gil-galad stood looking over his shoulder for a few minutes, then went and swung himself up to sit on the nearby parapet, leaning back against a granite buttress with one knee drawn up and clasped by interlinked hands and the other leg dangling down, his toes just scraping the floor. The situation and pose were far from secure, but the sun was warm and, like most elves, he had never been bothered by heights.

“Care to spend a few days in Mithlond?” he asked casually.

Glorfindel added a trace of soft blue to a line of trees and drew back slightly to consider the effect, nodding in satisfaction. When Gil-galad’s words finally registered, he turned his head sharply, making a sound of inquiry, which changed to, “Don’t you rather want to sit on one of the benches, Gil? It’s a long way down from there – your council would never forgive me. Why would we be going to Mithlond?”

Gil-galad grinned at him, pretending to lose his balance and swaying out and then back in the manner of a disobedient child. “My mother’s people sleep on talans in trees. We’re born with perfect balance, not like you poor Noldor. And Mithlond’s lovely – it’s quiet, well-ordered, restful…”

Glorfindel gave Gil-galad, who, despite a Sindarin mother was very much Noldor in his ways, a long look, then balanced the brush he had been using across the corner of the palette he had fashioned from a piece of smooth wood and which was lying on the bench beside him. The easel and sheets of thin board on which he was painting had been supplied by Erestor. The elf from Nargothrond had a talent for finding things and organising the unlikely which extended far beyond the requirements of his position as an assistant military advisor. Tidying back his hair, which action left a smear of paint across his cheek, he said mildly, his eyes still on the painting,

“When he’s ready, perhaps the King might care to explain why we are going to lovely, quiet, restful Mithlond?”

“You forgot well-ordered,” Gil-galad reminded him, leaning his head back and stretching, rather like a large bear.

“Well-ordered,” Glorfindel agreed. “Been fighting with the housekeeping staff again have you?”

“Kitchen,” Gil-galad corrected him amiably.

Glorfindel sighed, trying not to laugh, and went over to join the King on the narrow parapet, sitting with his back to the view and gripping the stone edge firmly with his hands. “Come on, what for?”

Gil-galad stared off into the distance for a minute, apparently lost in thought, then said, abruptly businesslike, “Eönwë is gracing Círdan with his presence for a few days. You have questions about your purpose here, you’ve been wondering why you were returned to life. I thought it could do no harm for you to try asking him. He’s more than likely to know and, if you’re lucky, he might even feel inclined to share that knowledge with you.”

Glorfindel remembered Elrond’s face and toneless voice as he told of his and his brother’s encounter with the Maia who was the Herald of the Valar, and suppressed a slight shiver. He seriously doubted it. “I think I’ll pass on this opportunity,” he said expressionlessly. “From what I remember of the Maiar, I’m sure that if he wished to see me he would send for me. It’s not always a misfortune being overlooked. If it’s meant to happen, we’ll meet before Elros and his people sail to Númenor. I’d rather not seek him out purposefully, which is what this would involve.”

Gil-galad was watching him speculatively while he spoke. When he had finished, the King swung himself off the parapet abruptly and gave Glorfindel’s arm a quick tug. When he rose to follow, Gil-galad draped an arm round his shoulders. They returned together to where the painting stood propped on the easel.

“I forget you were born in the West sometimes,” the King admitted finally. “You’d know better than I would, I suppose, and it’s your choice, of course. I just thought it might prove helpful. Perhaps you’re right, though. Perhaps another, less obvious, opportunity would be better.” He paused a moment, then, with a quick grin added, “Can’t say I blame you. He makes me almost as edgy as my aunt Galadriel does, though at least I don’t get the impression with her that she’s secretly laughing at me.”

Glorfindel slid his arm around Gil-galad’s waist and settled contentedly into the casual embrace. “You can never be too sure with Galadriel,” he warned, his tongue catching on the still-unfamiliar name. To him she would always be Nerwen. “Anyway, I’m in less of a rush to find the truth than I was before. I have all eternity for the answers to make themselves known. Meanwhile,” he continued, placing an affectionate kiss on Gil-galad’s cheek and then moving out of the circle of his arm and going over to retrieve the palette and brush, “I think for now I’ll just enjoy the sunshine and continue getting acquainted with the side of myself that my father believed was so inappropriate.”

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Finish

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