Chapter Three
Elrond, the image of helpfulness, had spent hours tracking down a book on the expansion of the coastal communities in response to a query from Glorfindel on the subject. He wandered, uninvited, into Glorfindel’s rooms, to find him trying to decide what to wear to dinner that night.
What he was trying to achieve wasn’t too clear, though it seemed to have something to do with wearing an outfit Gil-galad would think looked attractive. To this end he had taken every possibly suitable item of clothing and simply dumped it on the bed, and was now standing staring in a bemused manner at the pile.
Elrond put the book down and joined him in surveying the mess.
“What were you looking for?” he asked at last, lifting and then with a pained expression dropping a pale brown tunic.
“I was trying to decide what to wear tonight,” Glorfindel admitted. He pushed ineffectually at the pile of clothing. “I never seem to get it right somehow.”
Elrond was still looking at the brown tunic. “You won’t if this is the sort of thing you have to choose from,” he remarked. “Where did you get this?”
“When I arrived, Círdan organized clothing for me. That was one of the tunics he provided.”
“Círdan…!”
“I was sent back with nothing, including clothing. The intention wasn’t to make a fashion statement, it was simply to cover me,” Glorfindel offered.
He had gotten over his initial uncertainty with Elrond. Almost everyone was wary of the young Half-elf’s tongue, though Glorfindel knew a facade when he saw it. He was quite curious as to what lay behind this one.
He also had an idea that Elrond had been warned by Gil-galad, as he was unfailingly polite and helpful, even when it was quite obvious that he was gritting his teeth from the effort.
Glorfindel had started taking Gil-galad’s intervention in a whole range of areas for granted, from recommendations of books to read all the way through to the once-dreaded experience of social mingling.
The King made a point of staying within earshot until he was sure Glorfindel had started to relax and take part in the conversation, which was something the blonde Elf found to be immensely liberating.
He knew that, should there be one of those awkward pauses in the conversation, should a question be asked that he felt inadequate to answer, it would be dealt with, smoothly and effectively, by someone who was totally at ease in any situation and appeared never to be at a loss for words.
Almost without realizing it, he started to take note of how Gil-galad did this, and slowly began to put these lessons into practice in a small way himself. This nurturing of a feeling of security, of being in a safe environment socially, was something he could not remember ever having experienced before.
The habits of a lifetime are not easily shed, but Glorfindel’s shyness was not inborn but was a thing learnt in childhood. As with all habits, with patient support and guidance, it could, to a fair degree, be unlearnt
Glorfindel was born the only son of the head of a wealthy and noble house, with connections to royalty. He was a beautiful, well-behaved child, although diffident and reserved towards strangers.
His father observed his lack of confidence with deeply felt, ineptly expressed concern. This took the form of regular lectures on the need to be more outgoing, more assertive, to avoid gauche behavior that would open him to mockery and ridicule.
His mother, in an attempt to aid her son, had supported him behind his father’s back with soft words of sympathy and support, which had the effect of reaffirming his fears.
A phase that could easily have been overcome with a little understanding and guidance was slowly reinforced into a deep-seated fear of phobic proportions.
Elrond was poking cautiously through the heap of clothing, a look of disbelief on his face as he examined first one item and then another.
“You said dinner,” he queried eventually. “I wasn’t aware there was anything special planned for tonight?”
“No, not special, no -“Glorfindel found himself stammering, and automatically coloured. He took a deep breath and tried again. “It’s nothing special, just the King, Dalbros, and Erestor. It’s just that I seem to wear the same clothes all the time and wanted a change, but I’m not much good at this sort of thing.”
As he said this, he spared a glance for Elrond, stylish in soft rose and maroon. The dark hair had escaped its ties, as usual, and he had pushed his sleeves up almost to the elbows, and yet he still managed to look the picture of taste and style. The model of Elven elegance was frowning slightly.
“Dalbros the librarian I know of course, but Erestor? I don’t think…”
“The new assistant military advisor. Black hair, amber eyes, very intelligent, interesting to talk to.”
Elrond bit back the clever little response that danced on his tongue, knowing it would be misconstrued, and chose instead to nod and murmur, “Ah, of course. I remember him now. Maedhros used to call him the Raven – for his hair. Very original.”
He had started off minding his manners around the new arrival at Elros’ insistence but soon, to his surprise, found himself doing so as a matter of choice. In fact, he found himself actively seeking Glorfindel out, sensing the blonde’s loneliness.
The contrast between heroic stature and extreme good looks on the one hand and shy, uncertain sweetness on the other were touching. They spoke to the insecurity and feelings of exclusion within Elrond himself, which he went to extreme measures to conceal, both from others and increasingly from himself.
He did, however, find himself wondering with rather cynical amusement what Glorfindel’s response was going to be when Gil-galad finally made his move. The King had gone from feeling responsible for the returned warrior’s comfort and welfare to a condition where every third phrase out of his mouth seemed to be prefaced with “Glorfindel says….” or “Glorfindel wants…”
Elrond, who had been trying half-heartedly to catch the eye of the tall, dark haired monarch himself, wasn’t sure whether to be upset or amused, finally settling, instead, to watch and learn. And maybe gossip a little while he was about it, much to Elros’ horror.
Elrond started sorting through the clothing with a bit more purpose, accepting a few items, rejecting the majority until there were three piles on the bed. He moved back to stand with Glorfindel who had been watching him in confusion.
“The first pile,” he said, pointing to a small mound consisting of a scant few items, “are the clothes you will choose your outfit for tonight from. These,” he gestured to the second, slightly larger collection, “are acceptable. Barely.”
He leaned over and lifted the final pile of clothing and tipped it eloquently onto the floor beside the bed. He stood back and fixed Glorfindel with a firm stare. “These go!”
“I can’t just throw them away.” Glorfindel exclaimed, horrified. “That would be wrong, and ungrateful and wasteful and….”
“And then we will replace them with something more suitable,” Elrond continued, as though he had said nothing. “Something more in line with your coloring and build.”
Glorfindel’s face lit for a moment at the thought of stylish, elegant Elrond helping him choose clothing, and then reality intervened and he shook his head.
“I can’t do that,” he said regretfully. Elrond frowned at him in impatience.
“I promise you, neither Círdan nor Ereinion would even notice. Are these the clothing choices of an Elf who notices fashion? Be sensible. There’s no need to throw them away, there are enough refugees here who would be grateful for them. I can arrange to…”
“I can’t ask the King to give me money to buy more clothing just because what I was originally given was not fashionable enough. And I have no resources myself,” Glorfindel interrupted him, his face deeply flushed with embarrassment.
Elrond opened then closed his mouth. Memories flashed through his mind of himself and Elros, dependent for a large part of their lives on the kindness of others, teaching each other to sew in an attempt to maintain the few clothes they had.
Things were very different now. They each received an allowance from the Treasury. Much of that which had been taken the night their mother died and their world changed had been returned to them. The days of want were now long past, but he knew very well how it was to lack the means to replace the smallest item of clothing.
He looked at the miserably uncomfortable Elf before him. Glorfindel had never known a day of want before now, had no experience to fall back on, and was both too shy and too proud to ask for help. Something small shifted inside Elrond, something that was the beginnings of responsibility and compassion, the core of the Elf Lord he would one day become.
“You don’t have to ask Ereinion,” he said in what he hoped for Glorfindel’s sake was a suitably casual tone. He found he had no urge to embarrass him further. “I’ll see to it. I think I’ll rather enjoy this actually. Like having a life-size doll to play with.”
“I can’t possibly allow you to spend that amount of money on me,” Glorfindel began, but Elrond shook his head firmly before flashing him a rare, genuinely sweet smile.
“Look on it as the beginnings of restitution,” he suggested quite gently. “After all, my brother and I do rather owe you for the Balrog.”
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After Elrond left, Glorfindel picked up the clothing from the floor and folded it carefully before putting it away, after a little thought, into the chest where the extra blankets and such were kept. The ‘acceptable’ clothing he put away in their usual place and then he turned his attention to the available choices for the evening.
There was a deep blue robe that he felt too conspicuous in, though it would have appealed to Elrond who had a fondness for peacock colours, a pair of gray leggings, and a choice of tunics, one being of a red that was closer to scarlet, and the other a soft forest green.
After some thought, feeling defeated through lack of experience, he wore red because he had been told it suited him. He dressed his hair casually, plaiting a few side braids and leaving the rest loose. It hung in a heavy ripple of gold over his shoulders and down his back to a spot somewhat below his waist.
Finally, trying not to think overmuch as to why he was going to so much trouble for what was merely a simple dinner with friends, he made his way to Gil-galad’s private rooms.
~*~*~*~
He arrived on time, but upon entering discovered he was alone in the little sitting room that the King used when entertaining informally.
This was a room Glorfindel liked and in which he felt at ease. There were comfortable chairs, a divan covered with cushions, small tables holding an assortment of Gil-galad’s personal treasures.
One table, set slightly apart and under the window and flanked by two chairs, held a crystal chess set with a half-finished game – the twins were dedicated, aggressive players.
There was a thick, warm rug on the floor in front of the fireplace. It was the perfect spot to sit and have a late night cup of wine and one of those long, involved conversations that Gil-galad so loved, which took the world apart and rebuilt it again.
The room was decorated throughout in an assortment of warm, vibrant colors, which should have fought one another to a standstill but somehow blended into a harmonious whole.
The only new addition to be seen was a small table over in the corner, attractively prepared, and decorated with a small floral centerpiece and a pair of good candles. Places were set for two diners.
The inner door clicked shut as Gil-galad came through to join him. He was dressed simply in dark blue leggings and tunic, his hair held back with intricate mithril clasps. An alert observer might have noticed a brief hesitation before he came forward with his usual heart-stopping smile.
“Thought I heard some one,” he said, going to the fire and adding a totally unnecessary log.
“I seem to be the first,” Glorfindel volunteered from his place by the chess set, where he was busy scrutinizing the game.
“Oh, no, no, it’s just us tonight,” Gil-galad told him, still very busy with the fire. “Erestor pleaded pressure of work and Dalbros had forgotten a family commitment.”
Before he would have to answer the query in Glorfindel’s eyes, which would probably have required huge economy with the truth, there was a tap at the door. A small delegation from the kitchen entered, bearing an assortment of foods in covered dishes, which they proceeded to lay out on the server set next to the table.
“I thought, as it was just the two of us, that it would be pleasant to have something we could see to ourselves,” Gil-galad ventured. “Keep it casual, no need for servants.”
Glorfindel, as he had hoped, nodded eagerly. The blonde was never relaxed in the more formal environment created by servants, and would be more than happy for it to be just the two of them.
~*~*~*~*~
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Beta: Fimbrethiel