Chapter Seven

Glorfindel sat quietly as Elrond’s strong fingers massaged his neck and shoulders and felt the tension slowly beginning to drain out of him. In the comfortable silence, the rising wind could be heard, rattling the windows.

“I think I was over-reacting earlier,” he said finally. It was starting to occur to him that he had probably described Gil’s actions in a less than flattering light. “It’s not really about Gil, anyway. It’s about me. I get things tangled up sometimes, explain them badly.”

Elrond snorted. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you to start making excuses for him. Someone needs to point out to my cousin that it can’t always be about what he wants, and it can’t always be where and when he wants it, either.”

Glorfindel shook his head and said, his voice soft and a little sad, “It’s as though I threw him away, made him irrelevant.”

Elrond gave firmer attention to the tense shoulders. “What do you mean, Glori? Threw whom away?” he asked, completely confused at the apparent change in direction.

“Ecthelion,” Glorfindel said simply. “Every day I give up something more, and last night I finally gave him up for good. The worst part is that I try so hard not to dwell on the past that I didn’t even understand what was wrong to begin with.”

Elrond continued massaging, keeping his movements smooth and even. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

Glorfindel seemed to think for a minute, then said slowly,

“I knew Ecthelion for years, and I loved him, but I always said no. What happened last night makes him look – smaller somehow.”

Glorfindel paused and then went on more animatedly, “It’s the same with everything – my past, my family, my city, my King. In the beginning, it felt like trying to be two different people, but now I think I’m starting to forget who I really am. No one will talk about the past; everyone acts as though I had no life before this one. I feel lost, cast adrift. Soon the only Glorfindel will be the one brought to shore at Mithlond a few months ago.”

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Elrond said thoughtfully, “but I was never sure if you wanted to talk about the past, or even how much you remembered of it. I wanted to ask you about Gondolin, what it was really like, but I wasn’t sure….”

Glorfindel flashed him a small, quick smile over his shoulder, his face lighting up. “I didn’t think you’d be interested,” he said.

“Talking about something has a way of keeping it alive, so we would both gain from it. I was trying to read about Gondolin, but the only book I could find was deathly dull,” Elrond told him “The writer somehow managed to make even the Fall seem boring. As for your fight with the Balrog….” His voice trailed off in something like horror as he realised what he was saying.

To his surprise and relief, Glorfindel just shook his head in something rather like amusement. “You might even know more about it than I do,” he suggested. “It all happened so fast in the end that I’ve never been clear about all the details.” He leaned back into Elrond’s touch. “If you’re interested, I’d love to tell you about Gondolin. Your roots lie there, after all. Your great-grandfather was my King.”

He started talking in a quiet voice about his city, speaking about small everyday things: her parks and buildings, her people, the birds, the encircling mountains. His voice stumbled a little on occasion as he bit back tears.

Ecthelion was a thread within this narrative as well, someone adored but never surrendered to. Elrond listened to the idealized description and quickly built up a picture of a self-absorbed Elf, large on demands, but with no apparent interest in anyone’s needs beyond his own. He silently applauded Glorfindel’s instincts. He would not have trusted Ecthelion for a moment.

Finally, as he had wished, Elrond heard firsthand about the end of the Hidden City, of his grandparents’ courage, of Dragons and of Balrogs. Ecthelion died, the High King fell. Buildings burned, death rained down on people attempting to flee in terror. Finally, as though it was a small thing, a matter of no great importance amidst all this destruction, Glorfindel described the stand taken by a lone Elf, neither the largest nor the strongest of Turgon’s warriors, holding a creature of fire at the point of his sword while those under his protection escaped.

And he spoke of death: fire and a roar like thunder and a whip of flame, and of smoke, burning his lungs, his eyes, feeling his eyelashes shrivel on his face as he fought a being of nightmares. He had known himself defeated before he began; he was facing something far larger, stronger, older. He had known, also, that he simply had to hold the demon back for a while – just a little while – long enough for the smallest feet, the weakest legs to make good their escape. No longer than that. A life measured once in eternity, now defined in minutes.

He had nearly beaten the monster too, by chance, by luck, by virtue of his determination to hold it off for as long as possible. Only at the last, the whip caught and tangled in his long hair, which he had not been able to find time to braid back. They had fallen together, and Glorfindel could remember his hand shrivelling, lost with his final sword-thrust into the depths of that being of fire and darkness.

He remembered pain that went beyond pain and turned instead to a deep biting cold, and an overwhelming sadness at this ending, at the loss of sun and wind and beauty and love. And then there had been a place of gray. He passed into mist, to emerge again in the boat off the quay at Mithlond, waking from mist.

There was silence for a time, save for the sound of the wind, then Glorfindel seemed to shake himself before saying,

“I wasn’t implying that I regret having been returned like this, even if I don’t understand it. And from the time I arrived, everyone has been wonderfully welcoming. Círdan was kind when I needed compassion and quiet; you and Elros welcomed me. And Gil…” Glorfindel was still for a minute. Finally he said, “Last night it was as though my entire life had brought me to that moment. It was as though everything before had been painted in shades of gray, and I saw colour for the first time.”

He sat quietly, trying to find the right words, while Elrond ceased any pretence at massage and stood instead stroking the shining golden hair that had dragged the Elf to his death. Something caught his eye, and thinking it a trick of the light, he looked closer. Faintly, as though painted on with a fine brush, was a thin line of palest bronze in Glorfindel’s hair. It began close to his scalp and twined down to a spot half way down his back, before fading again into bright gold.

With a fingertip Elrond traced the line imprinted into the hair, careful not to draw the blonde’s attention. He never mentioned it, and to the best of his knowing, no one else ever noticed it, but he understood what he had seen. Written softly, flame in gold, Glorfindel carried the mark of the Balrog.

“Last night I gave Gil the only thing that hadn’t been taken from me,” Glorfindel said at last. “There is nothing else. It was something I would have given Ecthelion, long ago, but…it never felt right, somehow. That’s why I felt bad about it, I suppose. I don’t even expect it to mean as much to Gil as it did to me. There must have been so many before me.”

He smiled wistfully. “It was nice to finally belong somewhere, just for a little while. I suppose I need to learn to enjoy it for what it is and not expect too much. I need to be realistic about something for once in my life.”

Elrond, still staring at the scarred hair, roughly wiped unexpected tears from his cheeks and took a breath or two to steady his voice and bring himself back from the unequal battle on the Cristhorn Pass, to the room in Lindon, the sound of the gusting wind. He remembered briefly his doubts at Glorfindel’s ability to tell a tale of any length, and smiled at himself and his instant judgments. He returned his hands to the strong shoulders and dropped his head so that his chin rested on the top of Glorfindel’s head.

“You have every right to expect to be more than just another name on Ereinion’s list,” he said firmly. “You are nothing like his usual choice, anyway. You’re smart and kind and funny and don’t even understand that you are a hero –“

“I’m not funny, Elrond. I wish I was, but I’m not.”

“Oh, you’re improving,” the Half-elf chuckled. “You just need to stop taking everything quite so seriously. Including Ereinion.”

~*~*~*~

As he made his way to his cousin’s office, dressed with the sort of attention to detail suitable for an interview with one of the Valar – or possibly Lord Círdan in a particularly bad mood – Elrond contemplated the less convenient side of allowing people into his life. It was a very new experience for him. Well, there was Laslech, of course, but she hardly required the same sort of concern and involvement Glorfindel needed.

It was one thing to feel empathy and concern for Glorfindel, who was still adjusting to new people, new surroundings and was, therefore, highly vulnerable. It was something entirely different to take the next logical step and confront his cousin concerning his intentions towards the blonde.

He knew Gil-galad’s reputation for passionate but short-lived affairs and had drawn his own conclusions about what had transpired from Glorfindel’s admittedly brief description of their evening. Something had to be said, and Elrond hoped he could avoid being thrown out long enough to make his point.

When he reached the large office Gil-galad usually referred to as his workroom, it was to find the door open and neither of the assistants anywhere to be seen. The King sat with his back to the window, the light outlining his broad shoulders. He was bent over a small pile of documents selected from the larger sprawl on the table. The sun hinted at soft red lights in his lustrous black hair. Faint, daytime sounds drifted in through the open window. The room itself was quiet, peaceful.

Elrond cleared his throat gently, just sufficient to break the silence. Gil-galad, the good soldier, responded immediately. For a moment he stared blankly, then he put down the parchment and leaned back, looking the Half-elf up and down expressionlessly. He nodded slowly, as though something had been confirmed for him.

“Good morning, Elrond,” he said mildly. “Something I can help you with?”

Elrond took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had recognised the routine Erestor had followed the previous evening as one practiced by warriors from the Wandering Companies. Besides their expertise in a variety of the killing arts, they were noted for the mental discipline that gave them, in time, the ability to distance themselves at will from fear and tension. He wondered if he could persuade Erestor to teach him this.

“I wanted a word with you about Glorfindel, if you have a moment,” he said carefully. “You were the one who pointed out that Elros and I owed him for the Balrog, and I suppose looking after his interests should correctly be our responsibility.

Gil-galad continued to study him, his face expressionless. Elrond knew that the matter between Glorfindel and the King was essentially none of his business. Now that he was actually facing Gil-galad, he wasn’t even sure what to say, how to explain his concern without going into detail about a conversation it had not been necessary for Glorfindel to tell him was confidential.

He was, however, determined to it made very clear to Gil-galad that using and discarding the blonde in his usual way was not going to be acceptable. Elrond, who had noticed early that appearances were important in setting a mood, had even gone to the trouble of dressing in a manner that would suggest he should be taken very seriously.

“I just wanted to be sure you realise how disoriented he still is. You do know he’s far from settled, don’t you?” Elrond asked, pushing ahead with the approach he had decided on while making his way to the upper level. “It’s also very difficult for him, I think, to get used to his changed circumstances. For the first time in his life he has nothing of his own and is completely dependant on others…”

The last point had been a mistake. Gil-galad’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he leaned forward, propping an elbow on the table’s edge and resting his chin on his hand, although he remained quiet. That unblinking stare was beginning to affect Elrond’s usually steady nerves.

“You are suggesting – what?” Gil-galad finally asked.

“I’m suggesting that he’s extremely vulnerable right now, and he seems to have developed quite – romantic – feelings towards you. I wanted to be sure you were keeping all these facts in mind,” Elrond said in an even voice.

Gil-galad blinked. “Are you suggesting I’ve taken advantage of him in some way?” he asked in a dangerously soft voice.

Elrond heard the warning, but kept going anyway.

“I’m suggesting,” the Half-elf said with careful patience, trying to pick his words, “that what you might consider a pleasant interlude may seem somewhat more important to him.”

“Ah.” Gil-galad said tonelessly. “Let me see if I’ve understood this correctly. Not only am I taking advantage of the fact that he is completely dependant on me, but I am also actively misleading him and preying on his feelings for me. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“I think I’m trying to politely express my concern that you might end up treating him like yet another of your casual bedmates,” Elrond retorted, his tongue responding without reference to his brain.

Gil-galad had always indulged his two young cousins, ever mindful of the trauma they had survived, and allowed Elrond more or less free rein with his tongue. But this time the Half-elf had gone too far, and he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.

Gil-galad sat utterly immobile, looking at him. Elrond’s well-defined survival sense told him that, should the King start to get up, running might be the sensible option. Gil-galad’s usually friendly blue eyes had changed. They were very clear, very cold, like a winter sky. Elrond felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Finally, in a quiet, even voice, the King said, “What was that?”

Too far down the road to turn back, Elrond stood his ground. “You lured him to your rooms, you fed him alcohol, knowing he drinks very little, you took him on the floor – on the *floor*! You didn’t even respect him enough to offer him your bed. What else should I think? He trusts you, and worse still, he doesn’t even seem to realise he has a right to expect more from you…”

He never saw Gil-galad move. Elrond’s words were cut off as alarmingly strong hands grasped his arms. His next awareness was of being pinned up against the wall beside the door, held at eye level to the King. Alarmingly, where Elrond would have expected those eyes to be blazing with anger, they were still ice cool. Deadly.

“Is this how Glorfindel feels?” Gil-galad wasn’t even breathing hard. Elrond, who prided himself on being fit and physically quite tough, knew himself to be too far outclassed to even begin to consider struggling. He kept talking, however; he’d survived worse experiences during his time with Maedhros, whom he had irritated beyond endurance on numerous occasions. At least the King was mentally stable. He’d had his doubts about Maedhros.

“I got him to admit that there had been a lot of wine, and that it happened on the floor in front of the fire. And he implied that he knows it wouldn’t have meant anywhere near as much to you as it did to him. It wasn’t right, Ereinion,” he added recklessly. ”I know you wouldn’t deliberately set out to hurt anyone, but I think you might be forgetting that contrary to popular opinion, he isn’t some mysterious hero. He’s confused and alone and… I just wanted you to be careful and not make things even more painful for him. He has too much else to deal with right now. He just needs to feel safe, I think,” Elrond finished quietly. “You seem to give him that.”

The expressionless blue eyes considered him a moment longer, and then he was released. Elrond leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Unexpectedly a hand reached out and began to tidy his hair, which had somehow started to come loose again.

“No one was used, Elrond, give me a bit more credit than that,” Ereinion said quite gently. “I know how vulnerable he is. Not just right now, but probably for most of his … previous life, too. If Glorfindel feels I was less than sincere, then that is to my shame and a matter for me to rectify. I respect the fact that you were angry on his behalf, and I apologize if I hurt you.”

He dropped the hand to rest in an almost friendly manner on Elrond’s shoulder and gave him a very slight shake. “And if you should dare try to tell me how to conduct my private life again – ever – be warned. Next time I won’t be as tolerant.”

Gil-galad released the younger Elf, giving him a slight push in the general direction of the door. Elrond gave him an enquiring look, for once having the sense to keep quiet. Gil-galad nodded and pointed. Elrond, rather to the relief of both of them, left.

Gil-galad went back to the table and looked thoughtfully at the work awaiting his attention. His rule was that business came first, that more personal concerns could not be indulged in until such time as the tasks outlined for the day were completed.

However, Elrond had gone to a lot of trouble, right down to that impeccably tidy hair, before confronting him, and his concern had been genuine, even though less than diplomatically expressed. Gil-galad was good at getting his priorities right. For the first time since becoming King, he left the day’s work unfinished and went instead in search of Glorfindel.

~*~*~*~*~

Part 8

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Beta: Fimbrethiel