Chapter 14
Glorfindel woke to discover that he was lying stretched across the bed, his sleeping self already accustomed to competing for space with a large, sprawling and often restless figure. It took him a moment to realise he was alone and in the room assigned to him on his arrival in Lindon. Since they had become lovers, his nights had been spent in Gil-galad’s bed and he had woken each morning to warm flesh and a sleepy, amourous greeting.
Although it was well before sunrise, a sense of restless purpose and a need to clear his head drove him to dress in light, casual clothing, bind back his hair and head outdoors. He needed to examine his past in order to determine his future, and when he wanted to order his thoughts Glorfindel had a tried and trusted practice. He ran.
He started at an easy pace, but by the time he had reached the cottages and small garden patches behind the kitchens he was moving fast, head up, arms and legs moving smoothly. Buildings, trees, Elves who at such an early hour were probably either cleaners or kitchen staff blurred past him as he strove to reach the state where it seemed he inhabited two worlds; the physical world of controlled breath and delight in his body being put to optimum use, and the inner landscape where his thoughts expressed themselves in pictures, half articulated ideas and snatches of sound.
Looking back at his first life was becoming increasingly difficult as time passed. Lately, however, even simple, everyday details were requiring more and more effort to recall. The circumstances leading to his fatal encounter on the Cirith Thoronath had been hazy and dreamlike from the first and his death, though clearly detailed, seemed almost to belong to another. He assumed this distance was his mind’s attempt to protect him from the memory. Still clear, however, was the way he had tip-toed through life, certain of his lack of worth, unconvinced even when given praise and commands by his king, or when courted by someone as desirable and popular as Ecthelion.
As he left behind the rough, springy texture of the grass in favour of the beaten track leading from the stables down towards the shore, Glorfindel grinned briefly and humourlessly to himself. He wasn’t stupid; he had noticed Elrond’s lack of enthusiasm while he had been singing the praises of his first love. Now that he had experience of being treated with affection and tenderness, he could see the lack in Ecthelion with clear eyes. Up until his death though, he had firmly believed that what he received was far more than he could ever hope to deserve.
In his second life his attempts at safe anonymity had failed almost from the start. Gil-galad had used a combination of kindness and common sense to draw him out of the hole in which he had sought refuge, and followed this with tenderness and passion that, for Glorfindel, were like the ending of an unnoticed drought. Despite all this, he knew he clung to his shyness as though it were a cloak, a shield to shelter behind. His father’s disappointment in him had cut deeply, leaving all but indelible scars. It had coloured his actions and opinions, made him distrust any evidence that he was well-regarded or worthy of love.
He frowned as he considered the way he cautiously filled the less-occupied corners of Gil-galad’s time as though grateful for the notice, being careful not to presume too much, and he wondered at his lover’s tolerance. Worse still, Glorfindel realised, was the manner in which he had refused the command position offered to him. True, it was diametrically opposed to his views on life, but he had done so with scant grace and a denial of the compliment offered to him that was little less than an insult. He felt himself colour at the memory and his pace slowed and an awareness of his surroundings returned.
His route had finally taken him down to the beach. Reaching the water’s edge, he kept running, heading towards the far point where the rocks came down to meet the sea and it was impossible to go further without climbing. He considered wading out a short distance so that he could enjoy the fresh salty coolness of the water but instead, clambering up the rocks, he sat and caught his breath and then offered the customary gesture of silent respect to Lord Ulmo.
His experience of the ocean was limited; he still regarded it with a quiet mixture of awe and respect, and could listen to its voices and watch its endless motion for hours. The sounds of wave and wind blended in his mind and, leaning back on his elbows, he found himself smiling at the antics of the flocked seabirds fighting amongst themselves out beyond the breakers. He stayed like this and watched the sun rise, aware of being alive, strong and unscathed, all of these things an incomprehensible gift beyond gifts.
Eventually he was ready to address the growing impatience he felt towards himself.
In his more introspective moments, he knew there was no logical basis for his insecurities. His household in Gondolin had certainly been both proud and fond of him. His warriors had been loyal and respectful, knowing that he genuinely cared about them and had an interest in their lives and problems. Until he heard Gil-galad discussing the qualities of a good commander with Elros, he had never realised that behaviour he regarded as common sense and simple decency was, in fact, the exception rather than the rule.
Meeting people and building friendships held less terror for him now, mainly due to Gil-galad’s influence and example. He and Erestor had been comfortable together from their first meeting and he often felt as though he had known Elrond for years. In fact, his unexpected ability to respond in kind to Galadriel the previous night had been born out of his instinctive impulse to protect a friend. Elven skills of the mind were not his way, and he had little curiosity about the means he had employed as a shield against his highly skilled cousin, but the ability had been available to him when he needed it, a weapon like any other.
His response had been that of a warrior, protecting his declared lord far more than it had been a simple rebuke of an abuse by a much-loved cousin. It was work he understood and it had been made possible by the fact that, although in all other ways he was insecure, unwilling or unable to put himself forward lest he draw attention to his perceived shortcomings, as a warrior he permitted himself to be proactive, fearless, proficient.
This single event had resolved itself into a long-overdue catalyst. Change had been wrought by something as small and as simple as a one word question which had kept him awake for much of the night: Why? If he was capable of acknowledging himself a proficient warrior, then why not also accept he might have other laudable qualities, as Gil-galad told him with affectionately amused regularity?
Firmly he reminded himself that he had been born in the West in the time before the darkness, he had crossed the Helcaraxë one foot before the other, speaking encouragement and comfort to all around him – there had been no room for shyness and insecurity on the Ice – he had survived bitter warfare and had returned from death itself. He might never agree with those who named him a hero, but it was time, perhaps, to reassess his worth.
He got to his feet and stretched, flexing his muscles, arching his back and looking up to the paling sky, then turned and headed back the way he had come, slowly at first, then increasing his speed till his feet were barely touching the hard sand at the water’s edge.
~*~*~*~
By the time he neared the end of his routine and Elrond had still not appeared, Erestor had begun to suspect that last night had been too much too soon and that the Princeling was avoiding him. He was quite disconcerted by the relief he felt when the door opened and the Half-elf, clad in a casual grey robe and with his hair loose save for a single braid down the back, came out onto the patio, where he remained a silent watcher until the final sequence was concluded.
Their greeting was cautious, neither of them being completely sure what, if anything, the kiss had meant, whether it had been a not-so-simple response to the intimacy of the moment, or the beginning of something greater. As the elder and also, as he was starting to understand, by far the more experienced, Erestor supposed he should be taking the lead, but he found himself at a loss. Kissing princes was out of his experience.
It was Elrond, however, who had the idea of walking part way with Erestor to his office, which effectively reduced the tension while still offering them time to talk. Their route should have taken them through the garden and round to the steps, but Elrond led the way back into the apartment instead, and through the private wing of the palace, saying something about a shortcut to the administrative area. Erestor tried to look around him without being obvious about it, and was left with impressions of rich hangings, glowing wood, beautifully woven carpets, and exquisite paintings.
Once they reached the public area they had to cross the courtyard, and the activity around the side entrance to the Main Hall caught both their attention. Elrond, with cat-like curiosity, suggested that a quick look at the preparations for the evening would do no harm and would take no more than minutes. This in turn led to Erestor’s introduction to the Half-elf’s erratic time sense.
“I never see the point to these things,” Elrond said, watching four Elves wrestling the royal canopy into place above the head table. “Don’t you miss the informality of the Companies? Sometimes it feels very…crowded here, very loud.”
Erestor shot him a quick glance. He had forgotten how much time the twins had spent in the wild places of Middle-earth. Whilst under the control of Maedhros they had lived like fugitives, moving from one hidden camp to the next.
“I almost forgot that you didn’t live your whole life at a royal court,” he confessed. “You certainly carry yourself as though you did. Not a bad thing,” he added quickly, before he could be misunderstood. He was so late for his duties by now that it had simply ceased being a cause for concern. Instead of worrying, he had spent the last hour trying to keep up, to say or do nothing to make this spirit of enchantment decide he had other business and curtail their time.
“I hate formal dinners,” Elrond stated gloomily, gesturing vaguely at the scene being played out before them and pulling his mouth slightly at Erestor’s comments.
Erestor, who had never attended a formal dinner, who had, in fact, no idea of the procedures involved, gave him an amused look. They were sitting at the top of the steps to the gallery, a painting-lined balcony, running around three sides of the Main Hall of the Palace. The music would be provided from this upper floor, which would also be one of several informal venues, allowing guests to talk and share a cup of wine, and watch the scene below before dinner was served and afterwards when there would be dancing. Cleaners and musicians were hurrying up and down the stairs, forcing the pair to lean closer to the railings and to one another, to make space. Neither of them suggested moving to a less crowded spot.
Below them the tables had been set out, the shorter one at the head of the room, the two long ones down the sides, and they were currently being decorated with flowers, each place being marked for convenience’s sake with a sprig of rosemary. Seats were being brought in; benches for the lower end, individual stools for the upper level and high backed chairs for the top table, where Gil-galad would sit flanked by the guests of honour, one of whom would be Elrond’s brother.
“I’ve never been to a formal dinner,” Erestor admitted. “You’ll have to tell me about it tomorrow.”
Elrond gave him a sharp look from under impossibly long lashes. “You’ll be here, surely?” he asked in surprise. “Your position’s senior enough and anyhow Ereinion likes you, and he made the final changes to the list himself. He always does.”
Erestor shook his head, smiling slightly. “I received no invitation. Just as well; I have nothing suitable to wear anyway.”
Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment was forced to lean against the railings so that they could make way for a musician carrying a lute and another stringed instrument unlike anything he had seen before. Erestor moved over also, which put him almost as close to Elrond as he had been the previous night. He was quite content for the traffic on the short flight of stairs to continue indefinitely. Straightening up, Elrond said firmly,
“You have to be there. Not just for the experience, but because it would look bad if you were left off. It’s a simple division. Those who matter get invited; the rest don’t.”
Erestor blinked. This was a fair description of the way the pecking order amongst the administrative staff worked but he had hardly expected the Princeling to know this. Elrond saw his surprise and quirked an eyebrow at him. “I pay attention when Ereinion talks,” he said rather smugly. “And he knows how things work here better than anyone. He says you can’t control something you don’t understand.”
Erestor nodded agreement. This was one of his pivotal beliefs, and the reason he was making such a smooth transition into his new position. When he failed to understand something he asked questions. He said as much to Elrond, who rewarded him with an approving smile.
Made bold by proximity, Erestor returned the smile and tentatively reached out to lift and tidy back the long dark hair which had looped over his companion’s shoulder. Elrond’s uncertainty had been eased by the activity around them, but something in his eyes went still and watchful for a moment, before he relaxed and began to describe what he remembered of the seating plan. Erestor kept very quiet, listened attentively, and continued to play with the shining hair which streamed loose down the Half-elf’s back.
“…and Glori will probably sit over there next to that pillar, if that’s where they’re putting the canopy. He was an important Lord in Gondolin and Ereinion says his rank should still get respect. And you’ll sit around about there…” He pointed to a spot considerably further down the Hall. “Not the best place but not the worst either.”
“I told you I wasn’t invited,” Erestor reminded him in amusement, pushing his companion lightly. Elrond pushed back, a little harder.
“And I told you it’s important for you to be here. Which means you’re invited. I’ll make sure you get the actual invitation if you insist, but you need to start planning what you’ll be wearing. Black’s easy, and it suits you and I can loan you some jewellery, if you’d like. Ereinion always says it’s important to look as though you’re worth something.”
There had been rather a lot of ‘Ereinion says’, Erestor noted. He hoped both for his sake and for Glorfindel’s that it implied nothing more than respect for an older and much-admired relative.
~*~*~*~
Glorfindel’s next stop after the beach was the complex of long rooms and smaller outdoor enclosures where the arts of war were practised. He selected a weapon, found an unoccupied corner and proceeded to go through the turns, slices and lunges that are part of any swordsman’s repertoire, mentally assessing himself as though his actions were those of a stranger.
Yes, he decided, satisfied with what he saw: not only was he still very good at what he did, but almost every day it seemed that a little more strength, a fraction more speed had returned while he slept. He spent an hour engrossed in training, which included some knife work and an outdoor attempt at archery, for which he had little skill despite having a great liking, and then he was free till the afternoon when he was scheduled to meet with his first students.
Still slightly flushed and sweat-dampened from his exertions he went to see Carod, and for the first time recognised the admiration and excitement in the young groom’s eyes as they talked. The horse was to all intents and purposes recovered and ready to be ridden again and Glorfindel, pleased and relieved, staying a short time to talk to him and stroke his nose. When he left it was not before thanking the immensely proud youngster, and asking him to take the horse for a short, sedate ride.
Going back to his rooms, he washed and changed out of the leggings and plain shirt and put on the blue tunic that he had previously thought too bright. He brushed his hair and then, rejecting the careful braids he habitually wore, left it loose, caught lightly back from his face with a tortoiseshell clasp. For his entire life he had been told he had exceptionally lovely hair. It was time, he decided, to take people at their word and stop worrying so much about drawing uncomfortable attention.
He knew that there were many areas of his life that needed change, but he decided it would be best to tackle them one at a time, starting in the place where he felt the most secure. Taking a firm breath, he went to wake Gil-galad.
~*~*~*~
The morning sun brought Gil-galad back to grudging consciousness. Someone had drawn back the drapes, and the sunlight, though weak and uncertain, fell directly across his pillow as though out of spite. He tried to turn his head away from the intruding light and sullen pain lanced through it, making him grunt with surprise.
He turned over slowly, his eyes slitted against light and pain, to ascertain the identity of the person who would be receiving the full brunt of his discomfort, and was confronted by a golden-haired Elf clad in sky blue who was sitting in a chair under the window watching him.
Gil-galad eased himself up on one elbow, pushing back long, extremely untidy black hair with a hand that was less than steady. They stared at one another. Glorfindel had a determined look about him, and Gil-galad wondered if he had perhaps said something contentious in his sleep. The thought of less than wise utterances led him uneasily to a tangled memory of Elrond which his mind was unready to retrieve, and he backed away from it, hoping there was less to remember than he suspected.
“Good morning. I won’t ask how you slept,” Glorfindel said neutrally. Gil-galad had no idea how the blonde felt about drunkenness, but had an idea he was about to find out. He nodded carefully, and his head throbbed and thudded in time to the movement. He winced, closing his eyes against the pain and therefore missed the smile that tugged at the corner of Glorfindel’s mouth, and was quickly swallowed.
“Long night, from the look of it?
He grunted and tried to sit up, though better of it and lay back down in a snarl of hair, a muscular arm across his face.
“You’re the king, and if you decide to spend the morning in bed recovering from the night’s excesses, no one would try and object,” Glorfindel informed him, trying to speak severely but having to fight off an urge to start laughing. It was the first time he had seen Gil looking vulnerable, and he found it both endearing and encouraging. It made him feel that he did in fact have a chance of being an equal partner in their new but fast-growing relationship. “However, I was asked to mention that your assistant is looking for you, you have a council meeting just before lunch, and I was told you specifically wanted to go riding with Elros this afternoon.”
“You my new assistant?” Gil-galad growled, squeezing his eyes closed and trying to force the headache back to a manageable level. He had a picture of galloping along the beach with Elros and all but shuddered. “No riding,” he added firmly. “Just…not.”
He opened one eye to look again at Glorfindel, still settled quite comfortably in the chair. Something besides the unexpectedly bright tunic seemed different about him, but Gil-galad was in no mood to try and understand what or why. One question felt important, though, and this he asked. “You weren’t here last night, were you? “
“No, but I heard about it from Elrond. He said you needed to think, that there were some problems you were trying to solve.” Glorfindel crossed his legs and leaned back and the sun catching his shining hair was a sight Gil-galad found somewhat too bright for comfort. “If you’re willing, in future I’d be happy to listen if there are things you need to talk about. I’ll even try and keep you company with the wine. Solitary drinking sounds like a lonely business to me.”
Gil-galad studied him in thoughtful silence. The Elf, who looked like Glorfindel but had the mannerisms of someone far more self-assured, and who sounded rather like…rather like Elrond actually, rose and came over to the bed and poured a cup of water from the beaker on the nightstand. Gil saw there was also a bowl of sliced fruit and some bread and what looked like honey. His stomach protested at the thought, but he accepted the proffered cup, trying to keep the water from spilling.
“I think we need to decide something,” the clear, implacable voice continued, while a firm though gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Either I am to be treated simply as a trophy, an unlikely conquest to add to your apparently impressive list. Or…” Gil-galad opened his mouth to protest, but found no words and instead looked mutely up into the deep blue eyes that met his with level calm. “Or, we can try and have the type of relationship where you can confide in me rather than seeking a solution in wine. And of course I know this is not a habit of yours, but the principle remains.”
Shaking his head at the less than impressive sight before him, Glorfindel went and found a light robe which he tossed onto the bed.
“I know you hate the idea of confiding in anyone,” he added more gently. ”I also find it difficult. Perhaps we could try and teach each other? It might be more effective than drinking alone in the dark and then telling Elrond just enough to confuse him into sharing with me the parts he thinks I should know.”
Gil-galad took the robe and dragged it on. He assumed this new, organised Glorfindel had already arranged for a bath to be drawn for him. It was clear he would have no choice but to get up and face the day, since he felt too ill to stand against this onslaught.
Later, he promised himself, he and Elrond were going to be having a discussion about the meanings of family loyalty and confidentiality.
~*~*~*~*~
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Beta: Enismirdal