“Didn’t help much, did it?” Gil-galad said, handing Glorfindel his wine before sinking into one of the chairs ranged about the hearth. A crackling fire brightened the sitting room and the drapes were drawn against the grey of early evening. Outside the wind had come up and whistled past, shaking the door out onto the private terrace. Listening to it, Glorfindel thought the council meeting had ended just in time. It had taken place on one of the palace balconies, offering the maximum in privacy but little protection from the elements.
“Well, we have a better overview now,” he suggested, taking the chair opposite and sampling his wine which rivalled anything Tirion could offer: Gil-galad had a good cellar. Setting the cup down on the low table beside his chair he began counting items off on his fingers. “The road into Lindon is secure. Morale along the border is high. We know Ost-in-Edhil is in enemy hands and that our army suffered heavy losses near Tharbad. Also that the remnant have joined forces with Celeborn’s fighters and are still harrying the enemy.”
“This would be the same army you wanted to travel with, yes.” Gil-galad’s eyes flashed humour, though his face had grown grim at mention of that defeat. “The one I was so unreasonable as to stop you from joining and where you claimed you would have been quite safe.”
“Is that the same ‘I told you so’ you got from your Council?” Glorfindel countered with a grin. “It sounds well-rehearsed. And who knows, a little more experience out there might have helped.”
“Elrond had captains who fought before the sun rose,” Gil-galad said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out closer to the fire. “But yes, experience might have helped. Or not. At least he has Celeborn to advise him. We aren’t close, but I have never doubted his ability.”
“You don’t get along with Celeborn?” Glorfindel had only met Artanis’s future husband once and was curious. “He seemed pleasant enough to me, but then her brothers were around when we met so he would have been on his best behaviour.”
Gil-galad shrugged. “Personality clash, nothing more. They make a good team and I’ve seen him fight – he’s impressive.”
Glorfindel decided not to press and just nodded. Círdan could tell him more about a Sindarin prince. “You’re serious about sending a representative over to Númenor then?” he asked instead, turning the subject with ease. “There were some surprised faces when you raised that.”
Gil-galad looked meditatively into his wine cup. The firelight glinted off the mithril that still banded his head and brought out russet tones in his dark hair. “I could send another letter with Gimilkhâd. That was my original plan, but a letter’s easy to ignore. It lacks immediacy. Not like someone who can argue our case, emphasise the horror and strength of a renegade Maia.”
“True enough. And you want to send a party, not just one trusted emissary?” This had started a short-lived debate earlier about the size and status of such a delegation, but Gil-galad had put an end to the discussion even before Arvarad had time to intervene.
“Don’t see why not. Two views are better than one. They just need to travel light.” He paused, cup half raised, and considered Glorfindel. “Don’t suppose you’d be interested, would you?”
“I doubt I would be allowed,” Glorfindel replied candidly, softening it with a smile. In his experience, one did not simply tell kings ‘no’. “My instructions were to come east where I was to protect and serve. My instinct is that going back across the sea would lie outside of those instructions.” Lórien’s orders, which he had yet to find a way to evade, had been to acquire Celebrimbor’s artefacts and bring them to Aman. Placing distance between himself and the rings would infuriate the Lords of the West, a bad choice for someone travelling by sea, Lord Ulmo’s domain.
While he spoke he reached out effortlessly and felt the rings in some inner room, closer than they had been since the day of their arrival. They were quiescent, sleeping he called it, and he was careful not to rouse them in case his host felt the intrusion. Whether he would was an open question as Gil-galad refused to discuss the rings at all. The third of Celebrimbor’s masterpieces lay many leagues distant, far beyond Glorfindel’s reach, and while that was the case he would take no action. Anyhow, were he to try and leave Mithlond, he was certain Lórien would stop him.
Gil-galad was frowning but nodded. “Makes sense, yes. And I’d rather have your company here in any case.”
Glorfindel forced himself to relax against the chair’s velvet cushions, let the rings be and pay attention. “Can I ask who else you have in mind? I heard mention of Gildor, though no one seems to know where to find him. Could you reach him? And I heard talk that Círdan thinks well of Galdor, his friend from Doriath. The name confused me for a moment, I knew a Galdor back in Gondolin.”
“Gildor falls under the same ban as my aunt for refusing to ask pardon for his part in the rebellion. I have no idea how far west he could sail without the seas rising up, and I doubt he’d put it to the test.” Gil-galad said with grim amusement. He shrugged, drank deeply. “Pity – he can be very persuasive. That’s what we need, a silver tongue. That cuts Galdor out, he’s sensible and well-read, but charm isn’t one of his strong points.”
Glorfindel nodded, cast his mind back over names and faces. “How about Círdan himself then?
One of the rings half roused, sending a shiver over his skin. Gil-galad gave no sign of having noticed anything. Instead he snorted a laugh. “Right, I can see that. Círdan would be telling them to move their backsides and get their fleet over here right now. No, not my foster-father. We need a diplomat.”
“I know you can’t recall him now, but wouldn’t Elrond be the best choice? He’s your heir and his brother founded the Númenórean royal line…”
“Elrond – I don’t know, I’m not sure how they’d react to the elven half of the family.” He swirled the wine in his cup, scowling at it, then looked up, eyes finding Glorfindel’s. “In any event, that point is moot. There’s no way to get him back here in time. I thought of Erestor?”
Erestor had been present at the meeting, seated with Arvarad, his presence drawing more than one pair of eyes. He had been quiet in the main, raising the occasional point and asking a few questions, all of which seemed obvious upon reflection, all of which had previously been overlooked. He once held Arvarad’s position and Glorfindel now better understood why. “As an ambassador to Númenor?” He considered it. “His skills are more along the lines of gathering and collating information, surely?”
“Well we’ll need a bit of that, and he’s good at it. He’s got natural talent, and my aunt trained him well.” Gil-galad’s tone was dry. “But he’s also socially competent and he can be very charming when he sets his mind to it. I’m at peace with him taking decisions in my name if he must, and I doubt anyone knows much more about the way this has unfolded than he does. No one this side of the Ered Luin anyhow.”
“You… trust him?” Something about Erestor niggled at Glorfindel, something he had no name for. A reticence perhaps, a sense of containment. Walls. Hardly surprising in someone who had been involved in Artanis’s affairs, even less so in someone Gil-galad had sent to spy for him in Eregion. Still, there was something about him that felt wrong, a quietness. And there was a wistfulness in the king’s voice that made Glorfindel wonder if he was also aware of it. For all the hints and rumours he had picked up, they seemed to spend little if any time together.
“We met on Balar, we’ve been friends ever since,” Gil-galad said quietly. “If there was any reason not to trust him, I’d have found it long ago. He can think on his feet and he’s dealt with Númenóreans before, for my aunt. He has the language. For that reason alone, he might be the best person for the job.”
Glorfindel nodded, smiled – and there it was again with the return smile, that glimmer of something unnamed in those bright eyes. He put it aside to think on later, in the same private compartment that held the dream and the swan boat. Raising his cup to the light, he focused his attention on the here and now and asked about the wine instead.
~*~*~*~
The mist had lifted and soft sunlight filtered through the clouds onto Mithlond and the gulf. The water shimmered, blue and placid as summer, though the trees’ still-bare branches gave that impression the lie. There were pleasant trails up into the hills behind the city, and it was along one of these that Erestor led Glorfindel the morning after the council meeting. They had run into one another at the stables and, perhaps reminded of their conversation at the harbour, Erestor had suggested they enjoy the fresh air together.
Glorfindel’s horsemanship was rusty, but Erestor set an easy pace and was pleasant company, happy to point out places of interest and answer questions. Finally he came to a halt at the edge of a promontory overlooking the city, and they spent a short while sharing the vista in silence while the horses huffed and nickered softly. It was Glorfindel who spoke first. “I never realised how many ships were in the bay till now. This is a beautiful spot, thank you for showing me the way.”
Erestor nodded, his eyes still on the view. He pointed to a cargo boat moving out of the harbour under oar, her sail down but her pennants streaming. “Harlindon bound, those are the colours of one of the Sindar Great Houses. Most of those are merchants, though that one close to shore is one of Lord Círdan’s patrols. I can draw you a map if you’d like? It’s pretty here in summer, just still a bit sparse this time of the year. Further up in the hills — there — you’d find good hunting too, though if you’ve gone with the king, you’ll know that.”
Glorfindel smiled slightly. “I’ve been invited, but I don’t hunt. Not anymore.” Realising something further might be required here, he added, “I have been hunted.”
Erestor made a non committal sound. “He’s really more interested in the exercise,” he said. “Back in the old days on Balar he was hardly still, there were enemies to fight and when he wasn’t fighting there were people to organise. This more – sedentary life never agreed with him much.”
“You’ve known one another a long time, I’ve been told?” Glorfindel placed the inflection midway between a question and a statement.
“Since the previous Age, yes,” Erestor agreed. “I was Lord Círdan’s – secretary, I suppose you’d call it – for a while, so we were living in the same house.”
“I was surprised not to see you at any of the private gatherings I’ve attended.” He chose his words carefully, leaving a little gap hanging at the end of the sentence. Erestor could pick it up or ignore it as he wished, but it was Glorfindel’s experience that people had an instinct to fill gaps.
Erestor spared him a look that said he was unimpressed by the attempt, but he answered anyhow. “I’ve been away over fifty years, and it doesn’t do to presume. Things change, people move on, social circles adapt. Plus it takes time to adjust – it’s a different routine to what I grew used to in Ost-in-Edhil.”
It was Glorfindel’s turn to sound unconvinced. “The king strikes me as very accessible. Perhaps you should discuss it with him? I notice no one questioned your presence at the meeting yesterday.”
He was seeking answers that still lacked a question, following an instinct that said something was wrong here. The unreadable face and air of detachment were like an itch just under his skin. They seemed not to fit someone Gil-galad spoke of with that combination of respect and trust.
Erestor, however, just shrugged. ”I’m an old habit. Arvarad was very accommodating. Adjusting to life in Ost-in-Edhil wasn’t lacking in complications, so I suppose I should expect the return to be at least as uncomfortable. What I need is productive employment, not a heart to heart with Gil and assurances that I can still join the hunt or attend select dinner parties. Which I suppose I could if I insisted.” There was nothing to be read in those eyes, the brown made golden by some trick of the light.
“Surely the whole point of friendship lies in being able to speak your mind? Even to a king. Well, this king at least should be open to it.”
“You sound like Lindir,” Erestor said grimly.
Glorfindel put a face to the name and grinned briefly. “The minstrel? I’m always surprised people don’t take them more seriously. You need a solid grasp on matters of heart and mind to make a good song. I hadn’t realised you two were friends until I saw you together yesterday, I thought it was just Artanis wanting more than one person to protect the rings on the road.”
“It was an interesting journey,” Erestor said absently, patting his horse’s neck as a prelude to moving along. “We get on. He’s travelled widely, he’s easy to talk to – makes for good company.”
Glorfindel kept his smile and tone politely casual. He had pried enough for now. “I’m sure he is. Should we turn back soon? You said you had work to do?”
“Indexing, yes, clerk’s work but there’s some I’d rather do myself than risk mistakes. We can go back now, I think, if that’s all right with you. And thank you for the advice. It was helpful.”
Glorfindel, who disliked mysteries and had time on his hands, took the opportunity as it presented itself. “I’m glad to have been of service. Perhaps there is some way to help with the documents you’re preparing for Aman? I write a fair hand and have very little to do right now.”
“He’d be horrified if he found I’d put you to work copying family trees or some such,” Erestor said lightly. “Though I’d be glad of an extra pair of eyes checking my efforts. And the company, of course. Perhaps we can arrange something for when you have the time? It might even be a way for you to catch up on what’s happened in your… absence.”
“It’s all right,” Glorfindel said cheerfully as his horse fell into step beside Erestor’s. “You can say ‘since my death’. I’m getting used to the idea. At least the condition wasn’t permanent.”
Erestor had gone to some trouble since his return to avoid being trapped into awkward conversations, but tonight was Lindir’s first appearance and he felt obliged to show up and offer moral support. Lindir had been scarce for days, practising till he said his fingers ached; Erestor had no idea why, because as far as he could tell the musician outclassed anything the royal minstrels had to offer. When he decided to brave the Hall though, it had not crossed his mind that Gil-galad would come over to say hello. Normally royalty expected people to come to them.
Habit took over. He turned and smiled, lowering his glass while reminding himself not to play with the stem or fall into any of the other traps that signalled nervousness. Not in front of Gil. “I’ve been helping the copyists, but scribing likes natural light so early start, early nights. Not quite my usual work, but a week’s holiday was about all I could manage before boredom took hold. I’m not used to being idle.”
Gil-galad had his ‘company’ face on, as Erestor thought of it: polite, friendly, self-assured. He would laugh at a joke, ask smiling questions, but keep his thoughts hidden somewhere behind those clear blue eyes. What he was really thinking was anyone’s guess. “You’re seeing to the family histories, Arvarad tells me – all the gossipy bits, right?”
“There’s things in there I thought you might want handled discreetly — inappropriate love notes and the like shouldn’t be lost, but they have no reason to cross the sea as part of an official history.”
The social mask dropped for a moment, Gil-galad looked almost startled. “You got rid of Fingon’s love letters?”
Erestor allowed himself a very small sip of wine. “Not quite. They’ll go with your personal papers. That way you could return them to him later yourself if you chose… just to see the look on his face would be worth it, considering who they’re addressed to.”
They shared a smile that held memories: they had read those letters together, lying in bed and lazing away a summer’s morning. Erestor suppressed the memory ruthlessly. The past was the past. Gil-galad’s eyes lost the look of polite interest, and he seemed about to say more. For the first time in weeks, Erestor felt truly ‘there’, present, and was starkly aware of that inner warmth that comes from being an object of desire or interest. He forced down the first stirrings of panic and cast around for something unprovocative to say. Spotting movement at the end of the Hall where the musicians performed as a troupe rather than mingling with the crowd to ply their trade, he raised a hand, cutting off whatever Gil-galad was about to say.
“I came to hear Lindir’s first court performance,” he said hastily. “I think they’re about to start. You should enjoy this more than the brief taste he gave you before he left. He has a good voice and a sound touch.” The action plus the words coming out of his mouth scarcely seemed to belong to him.
Gil-galad looked taken aback, and Erestor wondered if there was no longer anyone willing to interrupt him or speak their mind. He supposed not. From what he had seen since his return, things had become more formal, advancement more a way of life than before. Then Gil-galad smiled, and the easy friendship they used to share was only a hand’s span away. “Come and join us then? He’ll direct the song to wherever I’m sitting, Cirithon will make sure of it.”
“Cirithon barely knows what to do with him, Lindir’s far beyond his instruction,” Erestor said dryly. “I said I’d be up near the stage, if that’s all right? Where he could see me. He says it’s good to have a familiar face to come back to if you feel shaky. Not that I think he ever does.” As a performer Lindir had nerves of steel. Under other circumstances they were equally as sound, as Erestor had reason to know.
Gil-galad gave him a thoughtful look. “That’s all right then,” he said. “You go over and look reassuring. We can catch up later. I’m not hard to find. Or avoid, if that’s your choice. I’ll be over there on the left, with Glorfindel. Perhaps we’ll see you later – bring Lindir over, I’ll pull out a few compliments, make him feel at home.”
Erestor nodded, already starting to move off. Some part of his persona that was not living in a disconnected daze watched this with quiet horror, wondering what had become of his court manners: you did not walk away from royalty, you waited to be dismissed. “I’ll do that. Only sincere compliments though. He’s his own worst critic – he’ll know.” He had just told his king – not his friend, his king – not to be insincere. He closed his mouth firmly before he could make things even worse.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gil-galad said without so much as blinking. “Later then, Erestor. When you’re ready.”
The dual meaning was not lost. Aware of Gil-galad’s eyes on his back, Erestor made his way over to the far end of the Hall, wishing it felt a little less like an escape. They both deserved better.
~*~*~*~
“Well if it felt wrong, you need to take a deep breath and go make it right.”
Erestor decided that for someone who could turn a delicate phrase and sing from the heart about lost love, Lindir was disappointingly unsympathetic. It was the following morning and they were sitting in the sun out on one of the terraces, Erestor on a bench, Lindir on a cushion on the stone flags, tuning a battered-looking lute. He had not planned to raise the subject of his conversation with Gil and how it had left him feeling, but Lindir had seen them talking and, being Lindir, had asked. Somehow the easy silences while the musician tightened, listened, tightened some more, had led Erestor’s tongue down unexpected pathways, and by the time he suspected the silence was deliberate, it was too late.
“We’ve been over this before — one confession has me dying of shame, and the other names me Kinslayer.”
Lindir frowned at him, pushing tawny curls impatiently back from his face. “Need to cut this damn stuff right off like a mortal, it’s always in the way. Look, you had to save both our lives and protect the harp, so it was an act of war really. And the other thing – you didn’t know who he was and you need to let it go, and I think the only way you’ll do that is if you go confess to the person you feel you let down most. Besides yourself, I mean.”
Erestor compressed his lips and glared. “You’re no help. What, you want me exiled?”
“No, you need to. It’s bothering you too much not to be important.”
“And you’d look stupid with short hair. How short?”
“Oh, they cut it anywhere from shoulder length to just below the ears. Cool in summer, also makes it easier to deal with lice. He won’t exile you, there are – what do they call it? – extenuating circumstances.”
“You have lice? Thanks for the warning. Lindir, the law says…”
“Gil-galad is High King of elvenkind in the East,” Lindir said practically. “The law is what he makes of it. If he thinks there’s nothing to answer for, that’ll be the end of it. And no, I do not have lice, I have in fact never met an elf with head lice. Other kind of lice a few times, but that’s what comes of visiting mortal brothels. Them, not me. And it’s touching to know it matters to you.”
“I wouldn’t want to sit too close,” Erestor told him coolly. “Nothing more. And Gil believes noble blood doesn’t set anyone above the law, including him. Especially him.”
“It’s not about being above the law, it’s deciding how to interpret it, and in this case everything you’ve done has an answer, there’s nothing that was done with a deliberate eye to – I don’t know, take your pick, treason or murder.” He dropped his voice on the last phrase as two courtiers passed a little too close. They probably wanted a good look, Erestor thought cynically. Predictably, his friendship with Lindir was already a matter for gossip.
“It’s not an easy subject to broach, either. I mean, I can’t just wander in, ask if he has a few minutes and then pour it all out…”
Lindir rested an elbow on his knee and looked up at him, chin on hand, sun kissed hair falling in a tangled cascade over his shoulder. “Why not? You say you’ve been friends for years, so what would be more natural than to go confide in him? He needs to know anyhow – what would happen if a bunch of Avari showed up to ask what happened to their brother who was guiding us home? He’d likely want to have the full story from you first.”
“… that is not going to happen, Lindir!”
“You don’t know who Badger spoke to before he joined us or who might have seen us together.” Lindir picked up the lute again and started tuning it in earnest. “As for the other thing… all you need is for some refugee from Ost-in-Edhil to start gossiping about you and Annatar where someone who matters can hear. After that, it might look funny that you never admitted to more than discussing history or whatever it was you said.”
Erestor stared at him wordless and shivered. The cold wasn’t on his skin, it seemed to radiate from the inside out, from a place that was bone deep. Lindir worked on for a while, seemingly oblivious, then looked up. “What? You know it’s the truth. You’ve had time to catch your breath, there’s no point in hiding from it any longer. You have to tell him, Ery. Trust me on this, it’ll come back to bite you if you don’t. Hard.”
~*~*~*~*~
~*~*~*~*~