*** Imladris 1498 T.A. ***
“Can you spare me a moment, Elrond?”
Imladris’ lord could not read Glorfindel’s expression; his speech was quiet and his greeting much as usual. He assessed the paperwork spread over his desk. Scrolls of accounts from the stables passed on from Erestor as urgent – how did horses get through so much hay? And where were they going to find a surplus to augment the dwindling stocks? Last year’s fall rains had started early and reduced the harvest substantially if not entirely ruined it. Why did he imagine he could feel ill influences over even the weather? Northwards the problem of Angmar was bad enough, and all that had been happening across Arnor; equal cause for concern rested in the more recent eastern menace, nebulous but on the rise, that none of them could yet identify. Why? So far away, and yet so potent. Unease filled him. He and Gandalf had discussed their concerns but not yet come to a consensus on what action to take. He wanted no delay yet Gandalf argued for temperate caution, thanks to Saruman.
He sighed, feeling all the weight of the responsibilities concomitant with bearing Vilya.
The horses’ feed was far easier to solve. They would just have to consider other staples. He had heard of a crop becoming popular in the west that they could try, reported as red in colour and with a high sugar content as well as roughage, that horses would eat in lieu of a grass bulk feed. He made a note to follow up the enquiry by sending someone out to acquire a sample for the stable master to experiment with. And Halflings had settled recently around Bree. He would make sure to take the opportunity to discover how Men were responding to the Periannath moving in around them. He made another note with greater enthusiasm; he had always been fond of the curiosities life on Arda offered. He revelled in such developments, fascinated by the richness of lives blessed with mortality.
He winced at the thought of mortality, sharply recalled to the waiting Elda and matters regarding Erestor he had no wish to discuss. He set down his quill, and pushed his notes aside, braced to meet calmly whatever Glorfindel chose to say.
“Sorry, Glorfindel. The hay is running out after the ruin of the harvest last year. We’ll have to trade with Bree, I think. This can wait.”
Glorfindel nodded with polite interest. He seemed oddly poised now he had Elrond’s attention, balanced as he would be going into a fight. The hairs on the back of Elrond’s neck pricked.
In the aftermath of their last meeting, two days ago, he did not quite know what to expect. He had never provoked his Captain’s anger until now and had been feeling unusually uncomfortable while waiting for their next encounter. Erestor was the last matter he had expected to cause a rift between him and the Elda. His centuries long compromise had seemed to work for himself and for Erestor, wherein he left his Councillor in peace to get on with his work, apart from making sure he ate – why did he never seem interested in eating at mealtimes? He was far too thin and it offended the healer in Elrond – while Elrond kept his feelings to himself. Considering the circumstances, they had worked well together; he had been surprised at how restful, undemanding and efficient Erestor had proved to be as a colleague.
Glorfindel was watching him with piercing eyes that had seen too much. His air of courteous attendance comforted Elrond not one whit.
Anger stirred in him. Glorfindel had arrived a century ago, after dying at Gondolin over five *thousand* years before… Glorfindel had lived long and seen much before he faced his death so nobly, but he had not had to endure the disasters of the Second Age, nor ridden in the Last Alliance. He had not witnessed all the glory of Lindon in its hey-day, nor lived through its demise. Elrond drew himself to his full height.
He was Lord of Imladris and did not have to account to Glorfindel. He had been charged by Galadriel with Erestor’s housing and oversight against his will, thanks to Gil-galad’s writ. He had argued against it, Galadriel had been adamant, Gil-galad told him to do as she decreed, and Elrond had given in. The Noldo was well, was occupied, and had free run of the Vale and its environs far afield. So long as Elrond knew where he was, he could virtually go where he willed and when. If Elrond did not seek friendly terms with him, well, there was nothing unusual in having no liking for someone, and he was surely entitled to exclude Erestor from the ranks of his friendships. He doubted it came as a surprise to Erestor.
Glorfindel gave up waiting for Elrond to show signs of emerging from his thoughts. He straightened, and turned to open the door. “Good. If you’ll come with me? We’ll pick up Pirrith in the hall. He should have got my message by now.” Elrond frowned.
***
Lords and Steward exchanged greetings. The Steward was deferential, which was no surprise. Together they trod the wide passages of the house, with Glorfindel leading the way. The other two gradually let their sporadic questions lapse in the face of Glorfindel’s persistent non-answer. “All will be made clear shortly,” was all he would say.
They turned into backways where the guards came and went, a hallway which would eventually emerge through wide outer doors to a court with a walkway, broad and paved, that in turn led to the far end of the stables and barracks compounds. This route raised no surprise in his companions, for the Captain’s business lay with the guards by and large, and the path and this corridor through the house had been designed specifically to grant quick and unobtrusive egress between house and guard quarters. Only when their escort turned into the side passage holding storerooms and meagre appointments for brief stopovers which couriers needed to make from time to time did Glorfindel first meet resistance.
Elrond, increasingly inclined to rebel against this unexplained tour, and resentful of the trail of dust his robe picked up on one undusted corner, was frowning, and about to protest, when Pirrith forestalled him. The Steward had begun to remember what he had done and never chosen to amend, when Elrond’s expected instructions regarding Erestor’s apartments did not materialize. He had merely appointed a servant to ‘See to the Advisor’s rooms,’ and approved rare requests as they were made, basic and infrequently delivered as those petitions were.
“My lord, surely if it is a domestic question, there is no need for Lord Elrond to attend us?” he essayed, nervously.
Glorfindel ignored him. He opened a door, as narrow as the rest in this little-frequented quarter of the house, and held it for them, so that with questioning glances they ushered themselves inside to see what it was he wanted. Glorfindel had established Erestor’s present whereabouts elsewhere, and had himself checked his chambers for neatness, ensuring nothing personal had been left out on display, before he approached Elrond.
He let them wait a short while, forcing them to take in their surroundings, before speaking to both impartially. “Tell me, what servant of Imladris would you house here?”
Elrond stared at him indignantly, taken aback and offended by the petty enquiry and the insult of it, that anyone would be housed here for more than a short stopover in haste. He knew perfectly well what this corridor was used for. They had been meaning to do something with this section but had not got around to it. The Steward dared not speak of his own volition, and devoutly – but faintly – hoped he would not be addressed directly.
“Elrond?”
“You’d best have some reason for this, Glorfindel.” He rarely became the high lord with his idol, but he needed some defence against Glorfindel’s predatory manner. Arrived at the site of his trap, the snare poised for the catch, the Captain was all hunter with his kill set up. Elrond was reminded of a warrior blended still and silent into background undergrowth, watching as orcs headed toward a pitfall. He bade himself be careful, until he knew what was happening here, and shook himself to dispel the ridiculous imagery.
“Steward?”
“Mostly such rooms are for messengers to rest for a brief stopover while their horses are fed and watered, before resuming their journey the same day.”
Glorfindel frowned at the evasion.
“Elrond, whom of your household would you have dwell here?”
This time, coldly, Elrond answered, “None, Lord Glorfindel, of course. Your reason for asking?”
Glorfindel looked at him. Words would not do, they would be too bitter, and not easily overcome between them afterwards. He instead opened the doors of the clothes presses, and then left the pair of them, saying merely, “Yet I think you will recognize these garments, my lord.” He said it quietly, without accusation, satisfied he had accomplished his intention, which was to face them with Erestor’s circumstances and make his point, which Elrond’s own remark achieved more than adequately.
He left them, shaky with the intensity of his feelings about what they had done and neglected to do. Clearly Pirrith had had some concern over their destination. But Elrond… Glorfindel would not let him continue as he had been, no matter what the cause. He could sense unease in him far surpassing any matter of petty domestic dispositions. Glorfindel would have it out with him, whatever it proved to be. With both of them.
Erestor might withdraw, might defer most thoroughly, work willingly and never complain, never show resentment, but he was not a doe-eyed victim without backbone. There was that in his eyes that gave warning of it, an acute, sharp awareness hinting of a strength of will that was daunting. When he looked at Glorfindel sometimes there was a measuring look in those eyes at odds with the emotional side of him that so readily tugged at the Captain’s heart. Here under Galadriel’s decree, serving Elrond by his own decision, keeping quiet in the presence of his lord – none of it meant Erestor was to be underestimated. Lonely, surely, and that with his dignity and his soul-stirring beauty had made him a magnet to the Elda. But weak? Far from it, decided Glorfindel noting that acuity.
Glorfindel was decided: Erestor must release himself from his perpetual deference. Apart from anything else, it was doing Elrond no favours. Elrond must reconsider his dispositions whatever his feelings and Glorfindel had every intention of making sure of it. In his last glance at the two of them before he left, he had not missed Elrond’s look of surprised dismay. Satisfied for the moment, he departed.
He strode away to the kitchens, eager for a change of scene and company, to seek out an old friend and cajole a few small titbits. He fetched away a light wine, stole two cups, and begged a few rolls as well, sweet and savoury, with forced fruit from the glassed gardens to go with them as a special treat. His smile won him what the cook hoarded jealously, for only the summer sun would bring forth the more prolific crops of soft fruit. These early samples were born on a low-yielding variety which only grew under glass. He reminded himself to pay special attention tomorrow to Thalion who was now training in the guard, to see how he was doing and let Galuauth know, hopefully, that all was well in that quarter. He thanked her sincerely with a bow and another smile and carried off his prizes in a borrowed basket.
Galuauth smiled after him. The Elda noble was a breath of fresh air in this place, and she was always glad to see him. He would come just to chat, often, and she did not mind the loss of the fruit. She grinned. She never tired of the sight of him; all that mass of golden hair reminded her of her courting days, and her beloved Taetho. No, it was always a pleasure, she reflected, watching him leave, unashamedly enjoying the fine lines of him, little disguised by those skin-fitting leggings as he walked away – clearly in high spirits. She’d give something to know who he was going to share that picnic with, but she refrained from teasing. She had seen him arrive disoriented in Imladris, not knowing a soul from his life five thousand years ago and her kind heart rejoiced for the sparkle of hope she now saw in his eyes.
Glorfindel had one last raid to make before his afternoon’s haul was complete.
***
“Come away from your inky perusing of pages, Erestor.” Well pleased with himself, and tired of worrying, Glorfindel let his whimsy have a free rein. “Come and eat outside. It’s a beautiful day.” He stood in the doorway, without explaining more.
Erestor, who was feeling slightly better this second day after his disappointment with Elrond, over the worst shock though still and he feared lastingly, duller of spirits, looked up at him. He had gone back to his own rooms last night. Glorfindel had stayed until dawn was near breaking the night before. After Erestor’s limited revelations ran dry, they had moved with ease to smaller matters. Neither had been in a hurry to part.
It had been strange to sleep amidst such finery. Flickering memories came to him of uncounted camps, of quarters found among friends or allies, of less willing hosts who had been pressed at urgent need for shelter for a wounded comrade…
At the end of the night, chairs drawn up to the chimneybreast, Glorfindel had looked at the room around him with satisfaction. The embroidered counterpane matched the design of a frieze of solstice celebrations that was carved around the fireplace; he thought it a delicate piece of work and possibly to Erestor’s taste. He asked, “Tell me, do you like this better than your own? Should you prefer different than this, given a choice?”
“It is a pleasant room,” Erestor admitted quietly, looking toward the wide west-facing balcony. He loved sunsets.
After Glorfindel left, he almost had not bothered to exchange armchair for pristine bed, but was not prone to slovenly habits, and so reluctantly abandoned the warm fire. The sheets were not altogether cold, for warming stones held a remnant of heat and the fire had warmed the air… He lay staring at the ceiling, the image of blond hair and an enigmatic smile lingering superimposed on fine plasterwork for a long time before he let reverie take him.
***
Erestor now considered the self-same elf in person, and his work, weighing up invitation over his planned tasks. They were not so urgent that he must refuse a meal. The sun was high, and he had arrived at his desk not long after dawn. Hours had passed in steady labour. He patted a pile of completed reports. It was satisfyingly thick. He called in the younger elf stationed outside.
“You may go, unless you have work of your own to complete. Come back later to carry any messages I have, but that is all you have to do today. You should complete that duty before the meal tonight if there are any – they will be on your desk. Otherwise your time is your own. You are free to go.”
“Thank you, sir,” the youth beamed with pleasure at the unexpected holiday afternoon. All the older minors took turns at this duty, and most did not mind, but far better on a sunny day to have a holiday while his fellows were with their tutors. He bounced out, whistling.
Glorfindel smiled with approval. Erestor squared his work and joined him. Neither said much.
Councillor followed Lord without demur, wondering where they would go. Not far as it turned out. Glorfindel traced a path around the house, curving around bay trees and sweet rosemary through the kitchen gardens, until they emerged onto a quiet plane of grass with the sound of a stream running in the distance. Erestor knew this place and glanced at the walls behind them. The stable block stretched to one side in the distance, and his own rooms lay facing these same trees. They shared the meal under those long-time friends of his, offered shade from the patchy overhead sun and shelter from spatters of rain that splashed down sporadically, teasing the thirsty grasses.
Erestor laughed to feel the raindrops, feeling illicitly hidden from the world in this out of the way meadow, and wondered at himself, so recently and so thoroughly shown his place, now laughing in the rain. Glorfindel had that effect on him; he could not help it.
*** Erestor’s Rooms Imladris 1498 T.A. ***
Elrond let the realization take substance of just whom these rooms belonged to, ignoring the Steward for the moment, who had actually started wringing his hands. This, together with Erestor’s rebuff the other day, had exercised Glorfindel beyond a simple request for better quarters for Erestor. A mere petition for new chambers was not why he had brought his Lord here.
Elrond thought carefully alongside his reflexive anger at being dragged without warning to be lessoned.
Glorfindel was genuinely angry on Erestor’s behalf. He had not thought words would suffice. His courtesy was legendary and he was never high-handed, no matter how much power he wielded by virtue of his office, his reputation, his strength of character, or his awe-inducing Valar-blessed life. No, Glorfindel had not thought Elrond would listen, or at least, not listen and take his point.
He looked around, remembering the tears that had betrayed Erestor the other day, and Glorfindel’s wrathful reproaches. Had he listened then? He had thought so, but standing here, realized he had shelved the issue, complacent in his reasoning. And had he not also quashed the uneasy voice that urged him to consider Erestor’s isolation on account of his own cool, unbending example? Never ill-treated, maybe, but neglected…
Looking round this room, seeing it through Glorfindel’s eyes, he began to understand his Captain’s shocked disappointment with him. He accused Erestor of being unworthy of his trust, yet Elrond had never tried to overcome his own distaste in order to get to know him well enough to judge for himself.
Childhood memories welled uninvited of fell warriors advancing on a city long-since dead, his mother fled to the sea, and two grim grey-eyed lords searching for their goal, only to find himself and Elros instead of their prize.
*** Avernien: The Havens of Sirion 52 years before the End of the First Age ***
At their heels had walked a third figure, sword in hand, in battle gear, blade trailing beside him just missing the floor, ready at the least need. His dark black eyes had rested penetratingly on Elrond, and Elrond looking back at him had thought he was Melkor himself.
Elrond was six years old, and he had never seen an elf with black eyes, nor one with such pale skin before, so luminously stark against the black hair. He appeared escorted by two Noldor commanders, to a backdrop of cries and flame, and had entered hard on the heels of Elwing’s flight. His beauty was shocking, and in the high company that surrounded him of officers and their warrior cohort he looked utterly untouched by time, tall and dark and terrible in his still contemplation of the scene.
Elrond was in shock over his mother’s retreat, distraught over her whispered words of warning to look after his brother. The echoes of her words in the room were only this moment dispelled by the clatter of boots and weapons and loud-creaking leather. He had stared at the black-eyed Fallen One who had come to doom them all, as he clutched Elros behind him, wholly indifferent to the two lords who stood much nearer.
He was only six, but he knew of Morgoth and the Wars, and the evil that followed in the Ainu’s wake. And was not the city attacked and his mother fled to the sea, shining and fey in her determination?
***
“They will not hurt you, child.” She had looked into his eyes, and tears rose in hers. “Elrond…” She pulled him close, tightly, fiercely embracing him. “I *have* to go. I have no choice. You must look after Elros. I swear the Sons of Fëanor will not harm you, else I’d never leave you alone to this fate.” She glanced back at the door, listening for a moment and her expression hardened. “Listen to me, Elrond. I know you’re scared, but I promise you will be alright – I have *seen* it. You will survive, Elrond, both of you, and you will become great leaders. You are strong, and one day you will be wise and powerful, do you hear me? Never forget it!” She said it in a fierce whisper, and kissed him on the forehead, both hands around his head caressing the small boy to her. “I love you, child, always believe it. So does your father. Tell Elros when he’s able to hear you.” She bent to the silent child, and stroked his hair too, and kissed his cheek more gently. When she strode away, she did not look back.
He had been six years old, and left to defend his brother against the Enemy! The old distress was too easy to recall along with the memory of that day, even now, five thousand years later.
***
Maedhros laughed shortly. “He looks to you, Erestor. See to them. Someone has to.” He swept out, and Maglor with him.
The Dark One sheathed his sword slowly – awful in his deliberation, in the eyes of the child – and advanced on them. He bent down, and only when he reached out to push back Elrond’s hair better to see the wild-eyed child’s face did Elrond scream. It was not a child’s whimper.
With all the force of his personality, fired by rage over the blood he had seen shed and his terror and fear for Elros, and the shock of his mother’s farewell, he had screamed out defiance and promises of vengeance and called down the wrath of Manwë on the Enemy. The long words uttered in furious, childish accents rang in the stone chamber. He had not known he knew all those words until he found himself a finger’s breadth away from his Doom. He would never forget the look that passed across that milk-pale face. More terrible than anger, or rage, the Noldo looked down at his hands and up again at Elrond with a coldness that chilled the boy to the bone. He had stood up abruptly and gone to the door. Elrond stepped back as far as he could, pushing Elros to safety between him and the wall, regretting his outburst and terrified.
“Who’s on duty? Who’s here who has children?” The beauty of the unintelligible syllables did nothing to lessen the dread engendered in Elrond.
A few names were called out by those Maglor had left stationed to guard Erestor and the boys.
“Send them up here.”
Erestor waited until four elves joined him. “You will care for these two. You will not hurt them, nor let the least harm come to them. You will treat them as if they were your own. These orders are as Maedhros’ own by right of his instruction to me to see to their care. See them fed and find servants they know, or at least some inhabitant here known to them. Keep them safe, and see them *comforted!*” The last words were heavy with an anger none of the Noldor faction had suspected Erestor was remotely capable of.
They stared at the two small boys, and back at Erestor.
“Quickly, my friends. For you the fighting is over, except in their defence.” Erestor put a hand on his hilt of his sword, took one last look with those cold, empty eyes at the boys, and said softly, “See it done, and done well. I will have them treated tenderly or you will assuredly answer to Maglor, by my own most serious personal petition. I trust you realize he *will* listen to me?”
At that moment they would not have cared to brook Erestor’s own wrath. These four guards had known Erestor well for forty-four years, being part of Maglor’s elite cohort, used in guarding Maedhros and the brothers, and for particularly dangerous tasks. They had been among those who taught Erestor in the years following his majority and they trained with him, knowing him to be deferential, never trading on his connections, assiduous in practice. They had never seen him thus quietly, intensely furious. He was as fey as Maglor at this moment, and they believed every word he said.
“Consider it done.”
Maglor might hold absolute sway over the youth he had taken for his melmendur, and might cause him sometimes to cry out in the night, sounds that would be abruptly cut off, as if in pained prevention, but Erestor was his. Everyone knew it. None but the brothers might treat him with anything but absolute respect.
In the early days after he moved into Maglor’s accommodations there had been some in the camp who thought the lord’s choice was target for joking and mockery. Bad had gone to worse after Erestor had been waylaid. His quiet, certain speech and steady eye were easy to confuse with arrogance when he did not defer to someone. Caranthir had come upon them, while Erestor was losing a fight against three older elves. That had been another killing, thanks to Caranthir’s personal interest, his family pride and his ill-governed temper. From then on, there was no-one in the whole of the camp who did not know just what Erestor’s place was – and how it would be upheld.
In any case, madness and bloodshed notwithstanding, Maglor did not keep monsters in his brother’s ranks. Saco and his fellows would have done their best for the children anyway.
Elrond had followed none of the strange lilting syllables of the invaders’ conference. He tensed when the Dark One moved, barely relieved when he saw him head for the stairs. He tightened his grip on Elros and stood listening. He heard the steps continue all the way down and could hear no sound of him returning. He found himself retching, and ran for a corner of the room, dragging his twin with him, and crouched there, ill and sobbing, feeling Elros at his side, who remained silent and staring throughout. When his brother began to be sick, Elros squatted on his haunches and put an arm around him, but never once did Elros take his eyes from the warriors in the doorway.
For a while dark, empty eyes and reaching hands haunted Elrond, until the sight of the elf dressed in finery at Maglor’s heels or in attendance upon Caranthir and his brother led him to understand his mistake. At first he thought him a high lord on account of his clothes and the company he kept, but as Elrond grew older, and saw more of the lordly brothers, he noticed Erestor’s deference to their wishes. He saw him drinking in Caranthir’s company, letting him touch him, even in public, in ways that both repelled and fascinated the young observer. And he saw him follow Maglor to his tent when the day was done…
That he had seen relatively little of the lords at first had been due to Maedhros – and Erestor. Maedhros had given Caranthir – and therefore Curufin – strictest orders to stay away from the children. With a sidelong look at Erestor, he had said, “You will leave them in peace, Tornyar, and you will not disobey me in this. Do you understand me?” He saw them nod, blinking in surprise, at the same time as he saw Erestor relax minutely. He waited until Erestor looked at him. Erestor flushed at finding himself under scrutiny, but Maedhros gave him a slow nod, and after a hesitation Erestor nodded back, the unspoken communication perfectly understood.
From the first, they had understood each other with very few words exchanged.
*** Maedhros’ Camp 108 years before the End of the First Age ***
It was Maedhros who had taken Erestor for his first visit to his mother’s new home, and had met him afterwards for the journey back to camp.
“Well, hína?”
“You have been generous, herunya.”
Their eyes had met, and no more had been said. But when Maglor sat beside him that evening at dinner Erestor found Maedhros’ eyes on him. Slowly Erestor ate his meal, all appetite fled, and was civil to Maglor’s teasing friendliness.
Maedhros had kept his word to their cousin’s kin that they would be taken in and cared for. Erestor’s amillë and his beloved pertoron were happy and untroubled. Erestor had made his bargain and went on to keep it. He did not see what other choice he had. In time he could imagine no other life. So he studied, and worked, and trained. He lay himself down for Maglor on the night of his majority, and when they marched on Avernien, he was with them, armed and capable.
*** Avernien: The Havens of Sirion 52 years before the End of the First Age ***
Maedhros knew not why Maglor had wanted Erestor with such determined, inconvenient passion, but in granting his brother’s wish and safeguarding their interests, he had taken no pleasure in what he had done to the youth. He had taught him as his pupil, appreciating the fine mind and ability to think on a knife-edge of reasoned complexities, theoretical or practical. He worked with him daily. Cool and ruthless, Maedhros was neither blind nor heartless. He had seen Erestor emerge from that tower in the Havens and seek a back wall, where like Elrond upstairs, he bent double and emptied his stomach of all its contents, and after his stomach was painfully empty, still heaved over and over, white-faced and shaking.
Erestor’s attentive duty did not lessen after that, nor did his work decrease in brilliance, but the shy, unassuming smile that had been so evident when encouraged disappeared; his blushing days were past. Caranthir gave up teasing him at a long look Erestor cast over him, rising to his feet, standing to see what came next, saying nothing, clearly prepared to meet a further challenge head on. Caranthir had looked sidelong at Maglor, and backed off.
From that moment the game between them changed. Erestor had won his day-time dignity, at the cost of Caranthir’s ruthless attentions that night. Breathing hard, Erestor knew that this use was unspoken punishment for his temerity. After the Havens, he did not care. He bore it almost silently, without regret for the confrontation, waiting for it to be over. He served Maedhros and belonged to Maglor, but he no longer played the naïve innocent for them after the Havens and what he had seen them do.
Maglor let Caranthir vent his temper, but warned him after that to leave Erestor alone, if he could not control himself. Caranthir only laughed.
“Of course, brother. Erestor.” He gave them a bow, and guarded his temper better from then on. He had no intention of giving up Erestor’s bed.
Avernien proved Erestor’s true Rites of Passage, bloodier by far than his majority night pains with Maglor, or any tantrums Caranthir visited on him. That it was not his blood shed at the Havens made no difference to Erestor; it left him older than his years.
From that day, Erestor’s arguments had begun, never in public, never before a third person, but sometimes audible beyond the private venue of Maedhros’ councils. He disagreed on some matter of strategy, or tactics, and Maedhros on that first occasion, surprised, had assumed he could be casually silenced as before. Not so. It was a bitter discussion, and ended with disciplinary action on Maedhros’ part when Erestor did not back down. Erestor would not be dissuaded from speaking his mind on behalf of moderation. It was the only time Maedhros ever laid a hand on him.
Next time, Maedhros was not taken by surprise, and let Erestor have his argument, for a while, before cutting him short. He did not lose his temper with him again; he understood his cousin was at heart a diplomat and not naturally suited to be an aide for an army bent on victory no matter who stood in the way. They reached a compromise where cold respect on Maedhros’ part along with limited patience was met by Erestor’s countering views vehemently stated, followed by obedience once Maedhros’ decision was made.
While the children were young, Erestor stayed away from Elrond, asking to be told when the twins were due to see Maedhros in the Commanders’ camp and making himself scarce. But with the passing of time he inevitably saw more of the boys about the camp, in the lords’ vicinity and once the twins were older, at table.
Erestor never met his eyes, nor ever spoke to him unless there was particular reason. He unfailingly walked away if was possible to avoid meeting, an unmistakable, brightly adorned figure who drew the eye like a lodestone.
Gradually, as Elrond grew accustomed to seeing Erestor about the camp, the terror of that dire moment when he thought Morgoth would take Elros faded. Ever watchful, Elrond observed Erestor as he deftly played his different roles: deferential aide to Maedhros, colourful servitor at the brothers’ beck and call, graceful companion to Maglor, who needed only to glance at Erestor to exact his instant attention. Elrond was not very old before he discerned the full nature of that service. Yet in the early days Erestor’s face stalked his dreams, and his were the empty, black eyes that haunted Elrond’s nightmares. Elrond would wake screaming just as the nightmare figure of Morgoth reached to tear Elros from him.
Every time Elrond saw Erestor, brightly decorative, at Maglor’s side, or listening to one of Caranthir’s jokes with Curufin beside him, taking his leisure in that company, he thought him corrupt, just like the fallen Ainu: so seeming fair. Even knowing what he was, Erestor never quite failed to remind him of fear and terror and loss. His responsibility for quiet Elros, the shock of the invasion of armed and armoured Noldor, his rage over his mother’s driven fate, all meant Elrond could never look on Erestor entirely dispassionately. The loss of his mother weighed heavily on Elrond – he could not abide Maedhros – and Erestor *chose* to serve the brothers in the ways he did. Erestor was rewarded for what he was. Beautiful, dark corruption. He despised him.
When Elros sailed, and then when he died, the dreams returned, and this time when Elrond awoke weeping in tearing grief, it was to a reality he could not deny and he would weep anew. That Erestor’s face had furnished his nightmares did nothing to reconcile Elrond with Erestor’s history.
End of Chapter Eight
Tbc
*** vocabulary lists ***
Sindarin:
Galuauth, Good Fortune
Thalion, Hero
Taetho, Committed (S. To tie, or to bind)
Quenya:
Tornyar, my brothers
Hína, child
Herunya, my lord
Melmendur, catamite (lit. love servant)
Amillë, mother
Pertoron, half-brother
***
Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Glorfindel asks Elrond’s attention over domestic matters. Elrond remembers events earlier in his life.