*** Arrival in Imladris (continued) 2243 S.A. ***
“At least meet him, Elrond.” Galadriel gestured to the guard, who at last bade Erestor to dismount, which he managed somewhat unsteadily after the long ride on top of years confined to the close environs of his allotted prison.
“Erestor, make your bow to the Master of Imladris,” a title she knew Elrond hated, but needing the formality to carry the day with both these strong-minded elves. “If he accepts, he shall be your Lord, from this day on.”
Erestor glanced around, and made his decision, going to one knee, head bent. He said nothing. This then was the one whom she had selected to direct his labours, of all she could have chosen. He need not have worried about her pitying him after all.
“Erestor, I said I would find you work. Now you must decide whether you be willing. Elrond?”
“Galadriel says I would most benefit from the use of you, Erestor,” said Elrond stiffly. “Of all of us who could safely house you, she says your talents would be valuable here, and that I will not regret your presence with the skills you bring.” That was as far as Elrond was willing to go.
Erestor meanwhile was in shock. Elrond, of them all, was the one who would welcome him least, even if he was himself not inimical to the lord. Why would Galadriel place him here of all choices? She had read him to the depths of his being and had said she would not waste him. Why then would she condemn him to work for Elrond? He could not bear this. Elrond, to whom Maedhros and everything he represented was anathema; Elrond, who had lost everything and been forced to live with his family’s destroyers as a child, would never let Erestor forget what he had been. Elrond had seen too much. This dismayed him as nothing else had. Círdan’s outright hostility was far preferable.
“My Lady, this will not be to the Lord’s liking,” he said.
Elrond’s mouth twisted in bitter agreement.
“But will you undertake his service?”
Erestor stared at the ground. Imladris, famed haven of renowned beauty and impeccable integrity, province of one counted among the most politically powerful of elves, subtle in his ways, fighter, healer, leader, war-chief: the High King’s Herald. He cast a look up, and found grey eyes on his, that offered no promises. Yet if Elrond agreed at all, he might spurn him forever, yet he would not scorn him, nor ill-treat him. Nor would he waste him. There would be work he could do here, useful work. “I will.” He added no honorific, no embellishment of assurance that would be meaningless to its recipient.
“Very well.” So simply did she accept his word as he gave it, each strangely sure of the other. Celeborn stood by, understanding Galadriel’s mind was made up and content to trust her decision, Círdan frowned displeased, and Elrond – Elrond laughed shortly.
“Get up,” he said. “Look at me when you address me.”
Erestor rose to face him. “I offer you my service, Master of Imladris,” he said again steadily, and met those grey eyes without outwardly flinching. This was an elf he could respect, and if he could not earn the same in return, he would never know unless he tried. It was not as though he had many choices in the matter. He had lived with worse. Even if Elrond could not abide the sight of him, he was unlikely to be so blind to good sense and honour as others Erestor had advised. He glanced aside at Galadriel. “Lady? Are you satisfied?”
“If Elrond will have you…”
Elrond frowned impartially at all of them, glanced at his own advisors, assembled in full at this influx in Imladris’ court of lords with so large a train of elves. They remained gathered in the court under the open sky, where despite their finery and the rain it felt oddly natural to consider Galadriel’s business, reminder of the aftermath of other battlefields without grace of shelter from wind, rain, or sun, whatever weather might be visiting the day. “The Lady would have it so. Celeborn agrees, or he would have said already. Círdan?”
“I hate him with a passion. You all know this. I will brook no dealings with him personally. But I will not hold it against you if you take him, Elrond. We have to do something with him. The Valar know we did not fight against his lords to become like them, so I find myself strangely glad to be overborne in this. And I trust Galadriel.” He nodded to her. “Too, I have thought of nothing better, though my heart insists he should be relegated to the mines alongside the rest of the coterie. Personally, I would rather he be set to labour under dwarven guard but if Galadriel says he is no danger…”
“So you consent to this?”
“I do. You would not suggest it, without good reason, Galadriel.” He bowed, gracefully, his feelings unchanged, but sincere in his concession and without resentment.
She nodded, satisfied.
Elrond sighed. “Then, Erestor, take your farewells. My steward will see you housed after your arduous journey.” The healer in him had not failed to note the Noldo’s halting step. “I shall talk with you another time than this. Welcome to Imladris. Honour her and she will gently take you in as she shelters us all. For my part – obey me, as a beginning.” His frown did not lift, but Erestor thought the words gracious enough in the circumstances. He bowed to the Imladris Lord, and regretted parting from Celeborn.
“My Lord.” And making his murmured farewells, thanking Celeborn, without saying for what – they both knew – he faded back among Elrond’s guard, who first eyed him askance and then, at Elrond’s flicked hand signal, led him away to quarters provided by the stiffly correct Steward.
*** Imladris 1498 T.A. ***
The food stuck in his dry throat. In millennia, that scene had never faded. He could still hear the shifting hooves, of horses waiting for their comfort, still feel the rain working its way into already damp leathers. It was a measure of Elrond’s dismay, far more than his manner, that he had held the conference there in the courtyard, keeping guests waiting for shelter and hospitality. Erestor washed down the bite of food, and made the next smaller. Elrond gave him little quarter once he bade him do a thing, and Erestor asked for none. On this occasion, Glorfindel took exception to the lord’s curt expectation that Erestor finish his meal.
“He’s not a child, Elrond.”
“He eats like one, unless under orders to take enough,” snapped Elrond, briefly angered that Glorfindel did not share his – enmity was not the word – disapprobation, toward his councillor. Mostly he was glad of that tempering influence, having found it ever difficult to soften toward one foisted on him for whatever good reasons to his grave discomfort. Even Gil-galad had shrugged, and suggested he make the best of it. For his hard work alone Erestor deserved better of him than he got, but still Elrond disliked his presence if not the elf himself; he hardly had got to know him, not bothering himself to counter the impressions gleaned so long ago. Erestor’s subsequent history only confirmed his disinclination to narrow the gulf between them after his arrival. On Erestor’s part, the Noldo offered no overtures. Sombre glances and a bent head were his usual offerings. Others followed their Lord’s lead, leaving Erestor outcast from their society, increasing Elrond’s vague unease with the situation. Glorfindel’s easy indifference to Elrond’s difficulties was a blessing, one that Elrond was normally grateful for, but not tonight.
Erestor concentrated on his food, flushed with shame from Elrond’s retort to Glorfindel and hiding it.
“What’s wrong with you?” Elrond said sharply. How he detested that habit of bowing his head, as if he cowed the elf by threats or ill-treatment. In calmer moments, he understood Erestor sensed his visceral unease perfectly and sought to minimize the impact of his presence by the evasion. In far rarer moments of honesty, Elrond admitted Erestor was justified. He would never have abided arrogance in his unwelcome charge, and would have rebuked him for it unhesitatingly were his clear-eyed gaze directed at Elrond in the characteristically perceptive scrutiny Erestor dealt out to others, his natural insight irrepressible.
“Tomorrow, my lord, I wanted to discuss a thing with you. I have realized my hopes are doubtful.” Absolute truth, no evasion.
Elrond, fully alert, could not fault him. At last he softened. “Go then, if it makes you easier.”
“I can meet with you tomorrow?”
Shameful, thought Glorfindel, that Elrond’s best advisor had to petition him to consult him. His heart went out to the unfortunate elf, without knowing the circumstances behind Erestor’s difficulties with Elrond. In the hundred years since his arrival he had not questioned either of them about what he observed, but their differences continued unabated. Elrond treated Erestor as if he were in some dire disgrace unameliorated by time, no matter how efficient and inspired the quality of his work.
“Of course. I will always talk with you, you know that,” he said impatiently. That, too, was true. Elrond, no more than Erestor, was not in the habit of lying.
“I’ll go with you,” said Glorfindel, getting up.
Elrond frowned, but let him go. It was not as though he could forbid another lord to leave the table if he chose.
He watched the pair leave. Erestor behaved oddly around Glorfindel. His own cheeks heated as he identified the change when Erestor glanced up at the taller elf beside him. The Captain gave him a broad smile, no different than Glorfindel offered everyone impartially, and Erestor smiled back, as if he could not help himself. The Gondolin warrior was the only elf in Imladris who treated Erestor in easy fashion, though Celeborn unfailingly offered him company when he visited, which Erestor always accepted, and Galadriel was ever gracious, as if his past could be paid for in full by his current service.
Disturbed by this train of thought, Elrond set his lips together. Erestor’s isolation was highlighted in that moment of relaxation, indicative of his relief as he saw who joined him. Close proximity to others provoked more usually a gathering of his deportment into something cool and distant, reserved and wholly formal, while remaining unfailingly courteous and correct.
Elrond sighed, annoyed. He composed himself to do what he had done from the beginning, accept the lesser of all evils, keep quiet about his feelings, do what justice he could to the elf in his unwelcome charge, and leave others to make their own choices.
An unbidden strand of conscience tugged naggingly. They don’t choose for themselves. They follow my lead. Unbidden, he recalled guilty glances the minstrels had cast him when Elrond found them in conversation with Erestor. The Noldo clearly had a love of music, and talked to the minstrels more than he did others in Imladris. Had he deterred them from closer friendships with Erestor? He sighed. For the ten-thousandth time he thought, if only Galadriel had not wanted him here. And the thought that came to him most frequently and which never failed to irritate him: If only he were not so skilled and did not have to work directly with me to get the best use of him.
He quashed the wishful thinking, and finished his meal, feeling somehow in the wrong, but not seeing why. Erestor had made his choices, flamboyant, corrupt, close as a brother to those bent on destruction, and at the last, defiant of the King’s law. The consequences were hardly Elrond’s fault; had he not seen him with his own eyes, rich colours draping the slender form, ever attendant on those Elrond abhorred? And Galadriel had pronounced him guilty in no uncertain terms under Gil-galad's writ over his later offences.
He watched as Glorfindel put a hand under Erestor’s elbow, and Erestor smiled at him. By Ea, he never smiled at Elrond. Not once. In all the years. For the first time, he took thought to how soberly Erestor conducted himself, when he possessed a blinding smile that lit up his features. Had he smiled like that all those years ago, in that camp? Thoughtfully, Elrond made his way to bed that night unable to dismiss his unease, and yet unable to identify any reasonable cause.
End of Chapter Three
Tbc
Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Erestor’s inauspicious arrival in Imladris; the present seems no easier for Erestor or Elrond.