Erestor left the meeting, left the room, abandoned his collection of fine parchment and vellum manuscripts and maps, and left his Lord, without the slightest pause when ordered to bide. The lines of his back, cased by falls of purple wool so dark it could have been brown, spoke of unyielding outrage. Elrond was almost impressed by the show of angry dignity, and felt inclined to let him go, having no desire to prolong the confrontation nor seeing any real purpose in doing so. Nevertheless, forcibly aware that he would have to account to Glorfindel for Erestor’s loss of countenance, he was bound to make a token attempt to halt the temperamental departure.
On his own account, he was somewhat unwilling to leave matters thus when his ostensible purpose had been to find means to allay, not incite, anger. Yet the past had proven to be no tamed beast to lie passive when stirred; rising up between them, showing its teeth, it had challenged a reaction from both of them, and Erestor paid not the least heed to his command. Elrond subsided in his chair, wondering what it might mean that the Noldo was truly angered by that last exchange as he had never seen him before, his fury no whit diminished by his tirade.
With rigidly regulated step Erestor returned to his new rooms, casting a disinterested glance around the finery all about him as he discarded every stitch he had on, scorning to retrieve the costly clothing from the floor, in favour of simple leggings and close-fitting tunic over a sleeveless vest. He combed his hair free of every braid, and fastened it back tightly. He had only to find plain footwear to complete his preparations and be gone.
On his way to the practice grounds he spoke to no-one. Black hair swinging at his back in its braided confines, dark eyes intent, white about the mouth, he made his way without regard for any he passed, indifferent to the side-long glances he attracted. His clothes did nothing to hide his figure, but he was too exercised with Elrond’s unexpected slash at his underbelly to pay any heed to stares, whether ambiguous or openly desirous.
***
“Glorfindel.”
Glorfindel looked up from his desk, where Thelinn, his second, was looking over reports with him. He made to smile and then decided against it as Erestor’s state registered. “Erestor?”
“Is there anyone you can pair me with, Captain?”
The husky voice that fell between petition and peremptory demand startled Glorfindel, coming from the habitually composed and somewhat deferential Councillor. The ease between them of the day before might never have been. Erestor looked like a stranger, hand clasped on the latch so that tendons stood proud, with a rare frown of anger pinching his brow. Glorfindel looked him up and down. He wore his severest training garb, though he was not scheduled there that day, his hair was drawn back painfully tight, and not once would Erestor meet his eyes. Taut as the spring of a trap, devoid of his customary collected demeanour, he stood awaiting his answer as if he had just witnessed a massacre.
“What has happened?”
Erestor made a sharp negating gesture, resisting the magic of the rich voice, anger over-spilling into every economic move he made. “I’ll be outside, when you’re free. I’ve interrupted you.” He made a short bow to Thelinn and went to wait in the fresh air.
***
Elrond was impossible. He was sick of – he dared not finish the thought. His treacherous mind would not comply. He was sick of obedience. Sick of not being his own person. Sick of being indoors. Sick of Elrond’s oversight. Sick of work and of constraints. Valar, how he longed for the early days of the Second Age, when he had been loose and at liberty… He was sick at heart over what Elrond had said, and appalled at the prospect of facing Galadriel once more. Far preferable to dwell in anger over the former than in dread at the latter. Anger easily predominated. White rage ate him as Elrond’s words rolled once more through his mind and he would not wait longer to find an outlet.
The weapons store stood open; he murmured a greeting to the others who were there, while ransacking the orderly pegs, bins and chests for what he wanted. Daggers, sword and heavy practice stave. He checked them over, knowing they would do. He had used each of these before, familiar with their heft and balance.
Once in his chosen arena, he shed sandals and tunic, and set aside the blades. The stave was heavy, and he began moving with it, eyes part shut, feeling the grass beneath him, listening to what sounds filtered through the trees all about. Patiently he warmed up, breathing his anger in and out. Damn Elrond. Damn Maglor. And damn Glorfindel and his overtures. How *dare* he make him an object of discussion for any who cared to comment. His breath caught. He waited until he recaptured his rhythm and speeded up, beginning to plan what needed to be done to prepare for Harad, refusing to think further about any of them.
Clothes for hot weather. Money and jewels. Quantify money in the kinds of coin and amounts that would be most useful, both small and large denominations, such as the Haradrim had use for, or that he could most easily change once there. Jewels Elrond would provide, for bribery, and for introductions. Ideas for augmenting the growing list of goods he planned to take for sale. Which of the weavers in Bree he would hope to woo with their planned foray, and failing that, arranging to buy their goods for Imladris to glean the profit. Meren would come and he would need another mount at least, if not two. He was familiar with the current batch of unclaimed four and five-year olds – he needed to see Elrond’s stable master regarding Elrond’s discussion with him concerning what colts he might spare for trade; easy enough to make his choice of a pair of fillies at the same time. At the end of the journey, Sanduistin to approach. Cautious advances, carefully avoiding attention of the wrong sort. Success would be precious, the danger acute. Elm and elf wove through the air. His body moved with the staff, sometimes driving, sometimes following its lead. He swung around and was brought up short. He breathed heavily, facing Glorfindel two steps away, whose hand clasping the wood firmly had forestalled his manoeuvre. Erestor stood eye to eye with him for a moment before relaxing his hold.
Glorfindel took the stave from him. “Maervegil should be able to give you a match. I called you but you did not hear.”
He gave a slight bow and greeting to a familiar partner. “My thanks. I’ll get my weapons.”
“What’s wrong, Erestor?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar,” said Glorfindel softly, deliberately provocative to elicit a response, but never had he intended to stir Erestor to real anger.
Erestor turned with his sword in hand to point the tip squarely a finger’s breadth from Glorfindel, unpardonable etiquette toward one unprepared and moreover carrying no blade. “Do not insult me, my lord. I’ve had enough of that for one morning. Declining to discuss private matters doesn’t make me a liar. Maervegil is waiting and you have work to do, that’s all. I am very sure our lord will freely tell you what he told me. No need for me to go into the sordid details.” Bitterly, he sidestepped Glorfindel without apology and met Maervegil in the centre of the greensward, blade raised in salute.
These two had fought often. While their skills were well-matched, his opponent was the stronger so he made an ideal partner to keep Erestor’s strokes honed and test his stamina, but today Erestor was fey; as if cast from the pits of Udűn itself, the Noldo never let up for a moment. Grim-faced concentration had him meet every strike with a return that not only defended but also challenged and Maervegil had his work cut out to hold his own. Only when time had worn the edge off Erestor’s onslaught could Maervegil press the attack, and eventually disarm him down in the warm turf, blade to his throat.
“That round falls to me, I believe,” he said lightly, catching his breath, kneeling astride. Erestor was very still under him, his eyes dark with an air of defeat unfamiliar to Maervegil. Erestor unbent with his fellows on the training grounds as he seldom did elsewhere, and had a reputation as a gracious loser. Often enough he lost, for Glorfindel rarely allowed him the luxury of a weaker opponent. Yet he looked peculiarly troubled by this surrender, as if ashamed. He made to get up, and Maervegil rolled aside.
“My thanks. A good round. Will you continue?” His back turned, Erestor picked up the daggers and swept the air.
“What maggot has infested you today, Councillor? You look dangerous.”
“Is that not why we practice, that we may be dangerous? Come, or shall I petition your Captain for another partner saying I have worn you out?”
The bleak expression faded somewhat from Erestor’s eyes as Maervegil expelled a breath of laughter and found his own paired weapons. “Never!” They squared off and Erestor balanced on the balls of his feet, feinted once and then again. Maervegil was ready for him, and there was no more time to think.
When they were done, Erestor had no wish to go back with him. Left alone, he stretched, checked his weapons and took up the stave to go through a last routine, more dance than combat practice, cooling down without stiffening up. The slow moves allowed him to become absorbed in the shift and swing of muscle, just as combat had. Only the feeling sometime later that he was being watched recalled him from his mesmerized steps. He slowed to a halt, opening his eyes, to see Glorfindel leaning against a tree, smiling in lazy approval, equipped with sword in hand. This time Erestor’s hackles did go up under his scrutiny; Glorfindel was not going to let his lapse with the sword pass, and was set to insist on answers he had no desire to give.
With deceptive lightness, Glorfindel said only, “Had enough?”
Erestor almost snarled at the challenge. Elrond’s captain, source of his shame, himself deemed unfit… He caught up his sword to match the one Glorfindel bore. Without warning or pause he moved fluidly in to attack, to be easily parried. Glorfindel was his better by far and they both knew it. Erestor could find much-desired release in the Gondolin fighter’s superiority, enabling him to attack and attack without fear or favour, only to be repulsed and driven back hard and panting, until Glorfindel relented and let him take the offensive once more. Breath came fast, muscles burned in fatigue, hair loosed around his eyes and clung to damp skin. Erestor would not give up. He would never give up. He employed one of his more underhand tricks and nearly broke through. Glorfindel’s eyes danced at the near success and he pressed him ruthlessly. Erestor did curl his lip now and ferociously, impossibly, tried to hold his own, investing all his tensions into the fight as if by winning against Glorfindel he could lay to rest his shame… and by the same damning token, by losing he was – nothing. He failed, almost sobbing in triggered catharsis, partly due to sheer exhaustion, this fight following so hard on the heels of his match with Maervegil. For the second time that afternoon, Erestor found himself on his back beneath the victor.
This one did not let him up so easily.
Glorfindel smiled quizzically. “You are fierce today, my friend.”
“It was a good match, my thanks. And Maervegil was a welcome partner, I appreciate you sparing him.”
His question remained unanswered. “Erestor? What happened that you would speak to me so or hold a sword to me when I was unarmed? What is wrong?”
“My Lord Elrond had certain comments to offer. They were not all – welcome. Let me up, Glorfindel.” He shifted uneasily. Glorfindel lifted his weight off him a little, but did not move away, nor release the one wrist he had fastened to the ground while his other hand had set whetted metal to his conquest’s neck, since carefully withdrawn.
Erestor stilled under the other’s crouching body, frowning at him.
“What did he say?”
“Will you let me up?”
Glorfindel didn’t move. “I like the view.”
Erestor’s wavering mood left him loathe to play the game. “Come, our match is over and we have work to do.”
This appeal met with near success, the Captain instinctively looking first for the sun’s position and then over his shoulder toward the path back to his offices. But instead of getting up, he looked down again at Erestor, still in his hold, still spread out on the grass beneath him. “Nothing that can’t wait a while.” Glorfindel decided not to press questions Erestor did not want to answer, willing to enjoy the moment and the company, in a good mood after a vigorous fight and a break from duties he must shortly resume with Thelinn.
Erestor heaved up, unwilling to remain splayed on the ground for the Elda’s amusement, however good-natured, but found that in spite of his brief but determined struggle, he could neither dislodge nor disconcert the other in the least by his efforts.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” his opponent said cheerfully.
Erestor gave up, averting his face rather than look up into Glorfindel’s satisfied and appreciative eyes. No question but Glorfindel was pleased with himself, a far cry from his own discomposure after Elrond’s warning and this pinioned defeat.
Only slowly did the nature of Erestor’s quiescent stillness percolate Glorfindel’s awareness, the taut forearm in his grasp speaking of stress, unrequited even by two bouts of strenuous sparring. Wondering all the more at Erestor’s disturbance that persisted so, he reluctantly gave up his bid for a little dalliance, let go of the captured wrist, and agilely kept his balance as he rocked back onto his heels and up. Erestor immediately rose to his feet and stood at a distance, pushing back his hair as he looked for his abandoned weapon.
“Don’t do that again.” The words sounded odd, lacking any emphasis or inflection; they could have been about the weather. He picked up the sword and his other weapons and turned for the path to the house. Over his shoulder he said, “He said I could go. You are to join me on the road to Lórien. And that with Galadriel’s sanction we continue from there to Harad.”
“Galadriel?” Glorfindel caught up to him with a few long strides.
“To assure Elrond of my good faith by right of examination.”
Glorfindel did not miss the strain in Erestor’s tight speech. “Is that what’s bothering you, then?”
Erestor swung to face him. “Apart from the fact that he flung your interest in me in my face, yes, that’s what’s bothering me. That and the unsurprising truth that he hates my past, hates me, and cannot wait to be rid of me. I swear, he’d be glad if I betrayed him no matter how grievously, for then he could win free of me. By Eru, do not think I am not tempted! Now are you satisfied with my answers? Leave me be! He does not wish a friendship between us and I don’t welcome this interrogation. Get you to your Lord for your answers. It’s not my part to tell you his mind.”
He made for the house alone, leaving Glorfindel stunned on the path behind him.
End of Favourite Addiction Part One Chaper 11/12
Tbc
Vocabulary:
Sindarin - English:
Meren - Joyous
Maervegil - good fighter - Good-sword
Thelinn - of loyal heart - Resolved-heart
*** vocab ends ***
Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Erestor walks out and seeks an outlet for his feelings.