*** Erestor’s rooms Imladris 1498 T.A. ***
His father had sailed. His mother had fled. His beautiful, magical childhood home of docks and spires on the fringes of the sea had been destroyed. Elros had first sailed and then died. The brothers had died – or disappeared. While Erestor – Erestor who could not have cleaved more closely to the destroyers, working at Maedhros’ side while warming Maglor’s bed – had lived through it all, only to go on to defy the King himself.
When Galadriel brought Erestor to Elrond, with Erestor offering – irony of ironies – his service, Elrond had given him useful work, provided for him – clothes, horses, books - as had been his duty. Domestic arrangements he had left to Pirrith.
He looked around, as Glorfindel had before him.
Why had no-one ever told him Erestor was housed so shamefully? Pirrith had taken his cue from Elrond and indeed he could not blame him: it had been for Elrond to determine his new advisor’s status. He should have ordered he be given a councillor’s rooms, or at the very least chambers sufficient to comfort hröa and fëa. He had not done so. Nor could he blame Erestor for any part in his neglect, despite his silent, unprotesting acceptance. He quashed the familiar contempt that attended the thought. Barely accorded more conversation from Elrond than was commensurate with their common work, Erestor had hardly been likely to bring up the matter of his rooms. Initially feared, soon despised, Maglor’s melmendur had never been someone Elrond had wanted to get to know.
And Celebrian? Why would Celebrían let all this pass, when it was so unlike her? She knew her mother had brought Erestor to Imladris. She was certainly aware of her husband’s disinclination to view Erestor with approval. She must have judged it unacceptable to her Lord for daughter as well as mother to involve herself in the matter – unless Galadriel herself had warned her not to interfere…
And his wretched Steward had not given Erestor even rugs to warm his feet. He sighed.
He did not miss those small touches feasible without money that Erestor had achieved. He had never given Erestor wages or even an allowance. He could not buy trinkets at Festival, nor purchase what he fancied from travelling craftworkers. He could not offer coin to thank visiting minstrels, nor buy presents for the staff of house and stables as was customary at the turn of the year.
“The Lord Glorfindel had good reason to bring us here. Did you mistake this for proper treatment? Did you imagine this would please me?”
Pirrith was listening unhappily.
Elrond chose his words with care. “Regardless of how much you wish to remain in accord with me, Pirrith, you must tell me of any matter in your purview that I have neglected. Be it so gross a neglect as this, or details more petty, I do desire that in future you call my attention to any and all such oversights.”
He spoke neutrally without spite or contempt, but Pirrith coloured to the roots of his hair at the weight of the words and nodded miserably. “Yes, my lord.”
“Very well. Imladris can do better than this for those in her charge; such is the measure of Imladris’ honour. You say Glorfindel moved Erestor to guest rooms the other night?”
“Aye, that he did.”
“Then we will assume the Councillor will likely move to those quarters.” He stifled the desire to say, other quarters perhaps but not what counted among the best guest rooms. Not for *him*. “Nevertheless, you will see what can be done with these. Get some ideas together for my approval. In fact, you may as well make plans for rebuilding the whole block, and bring them to me at the same time: we will start work on it as soon as may be.”
“Yes, sir.”
Already Pirrith had ideas swarming in his mind, dreaming of open archways, planning a change to the corridor, opening up rooms alongside into these, transforming the whole wing. There could be an area developed outside the windows, doors onto the grass before the woods began, and a garden – his imagination took flight. A fireplace, in green-veined granite, rooms made much larger; carved embrasures to hold lanterns, small chandeliers – easy to manage, but casting a soft light that would enhance the wooden pieces he imagined decorating the new layout. There was a reason he was Steward of Imladris, and he loved this house passionately. He made a note to meet with the builders and gardeners.
Elrond recalled him to his presence, satisfied from the rapt look on his face that he had engaged Pirrith’s pride as well as his obedience. “Then you have my thanks, Pirrith. I think we are done here.”
***
Alone with his thoughts, Elrond made his way back to his spacious, airy study without any intention of going back to work.
Moodily he frowned out of balconied windows, wholly disinterested in sun and a fine spring afternoon.
To challenge his attitude had been Glorfindel’s purpose, the Elda’s performance today no mere matter of achieving a change of quarters. Sub-standard rooms and the lack of a purse for spending money were easily addressed, yet neglect was not to be tolerated and its cause should be examined. The source of these neglects, his contempt, was far harder to resolve than a lack of adequate chambers, or pay, or even the reasonable companionship to which Erestor was entitled as one of Ilúvatar’s children. Those were like the fabled ice said to be seen floating in the northern seas: they constituted only the small visible portion of what were far larger, hidden concerns. Elrond did not care for Erestor. He had dealt with him as seemed right, and it had barely sufficed.
Long ago he had settled for compromise – large compromises on his part which he acknowledged had been returned in kind on Erestor’s by hard work and a dutiful manner. But Erestor was by no means innocent, blameless or innocuous.
Restlessly, Elrond paced his study, staring at riches. A clear glass bowl trailing hints of colour, a picture of the twins racing their ponies, looking behind and laughing, braids, tails and manes flying in the wind. Elrond reached for a wooden figurine, a harper in golden-grained mallorn, and recalled the etched detail of the bedstead in Erestor’s room. He fingered the graceful carvings arising from the wood’s natural turns, of delicate harp-stem and womanly leg and breast. He had not missed the tools Erestor had stored under a bench, nor the population of forest inhabitants which spoke of careful craft with chisel and knife. Elrond almost laughed, thinking back to Sirion where Erestor had wielded a very different blade, witness to other skills…
The sword Erestor had sheathed that day in the Havens had not needed to be cleaned: he had slid it home free of blood, holding it up to inspect it first out of sheer trained habit, doubtless ingrained by the buffets of reproach that any youth would earn for neglect of a weapon at the hands of his instructors. The sword had been pristine, a shining, gleaming arm’s length of edged metal. To a six year-old child it represented full-blown menace, yet that blade had not been used thus far in the attack.
Elrond had cared little to listen to Galadriel when she came to his door to deliver the Noldo into his care. His thoughts when faced with the weary prisoner had all been of the many-towered harbour city nestled in the Sirion delta brought to ruin and his six year-old life shredded beyond all peace of mind. Yet Erestor’s presence here in Imladris was nothing to do with what Maedhros did at the Mouths of Sirion. Later events were the reason for his remand, and plentiful reason to relegate the elf to more severe penalty in Elrond’s view, but Galadriel intended otherwise. She had carried the day, having Gil-galad’s endorsement for her dispositions.
Elrond had learned the lesson well in Avernien of loss and grief, reinforced by the passing of the years: what he loved he would lose. Eärendil a father barely known, Elwing a vague memory, his home. And then everyone he knew twice over; the soldiers who had sponsored him with their friendship in his formative years growing up in Maedhros’ encampments, lost to him when he was abandoned again for another wrenching start, and then his brother, which words could not encompass. Most recently, the loss of Gil-galad and, on the same day, of their hope for a final solution and peace from a struggle that had gone on too long and cost too much. That failure to destroy the ring had bound him by chains of responsibility to remain here on Arda until they could once more seek to end for all time the Enemy’s legacy of threat.
Once more only would he uproot himself. But that could not be yet. Not yet. Not for a long time to come, and only when he could call duty met in full.
At first he had resented Gil-galad, for being so right and good and ‘king-ish’. Elrond could smile at some of those memories, and the childish word his youthful resentment had cast up with such effrontery at the High King. He had been so very callow! He had felt inferior coming from the Noldor camp into a civilization that daunted him. Ignorant, proud and angry as he had been, he had settled in the end under the new guardianship. He had not been so ill-educated after all, as he discovered. Gil-galad had not faulted his upbringing, though sometimes, especially after a nightmare, he had pressed Elrond for information. The youth had never admitted to the content of those dreams, had never explained, but those arms about him had been some comfort. Shaking pridelessly in the aftermath of nightmare, his guts freshly ripped raw with griefs he pushed away by day – there in the blanketing dark of night he would cling tightly to Gil-galad the moment he appeared with opened arms to gather him in.
Whence Galadriel’s determination that Erestor reside with *him* of all people? She had refused to explain beyond saying how useful his skills would prove. That meant little to Elrond. There were many clever elves who could work for him.
She had held to the wisdom of her choice, and Elrond, without real reason to refuse his lord’s envoy in this matter, had given in. The bereft child had longed for those he could rely on and trust, such as Gil-galad; more adult habits of reason and respect had made it second nature to abide by the King’s order. Apparently he had still not lost that early childhood tendency to incline gratefully toward offered warmth and trustworthy authority. There was now Glorfindel, whom he struggled to command rather than defer to, who had all the appearance of infallibility. Kind, trustworthy and *large* - he smiled, sadly, remembering how comforting Gil-galad had been. Glorfindel, who could not be defeated by any enemy less than a Balrog, seemed a far safer harbour in which to take refuge than the Havens had been. In one short century he had come to value him enormously.
He frowned. Glorfindel and Erestor… And Galadriel and Glorfindel – both people whose judgement he would normally trust, both believing they saw in Erestor something he failed to see. With frustrated energy he cleared his desk of everything outstanding and when all was tidy forced himself to think.
He recalled that smile two days ago as Erestor left the room in Glorfindel’s company. In all the years they were camp followers of Maedhros together he had never seen Erestor smile as he had at the Elda: from the heart, shyly unreserved and friendly. He looked – different, smiling so. Elrond tried actively to recall what he had witnessed instead of the impressions of a child coloured by overriding emotion. He tried to bring an adult’s perceptions and understanding to bear.
He remembered most vividly Erestor’s clothes, bright contrast against the dark splendour of his noble companions, the lords who kept him so closely in their company. He recalled eyes of pooled shadow, hair black as midnight sky. His own dreams. Saco was the one whose face was easier to picture, Saco who had always comforted him as best he could, accompanied by the well-remembered smell of damp canvas, leather and wool on rainy nights. When Elrond woke, reaching for Elros and sobbing, having woken others all around, Saco would come, bleary-eyed, sloppily tunicked and hosed, sword cast out of habit over his shoulder in its belted sheath. It had been his care Elrond had first suffered angrily on behalf of himself and his brother, and then quickly come to rely upon in the vast camp of strangers.
What did he actually recall of Erestor himself?
He dredged up impressions of a flashing wit in conversation with his cousins that fast subsided into grave courtesy and quiet calm, odd ballast to the ethereal beauty and, in even stranger contrast, a demon’s determination on the practice field, the only time apart from battle itself that he had seen Erestor plainly dressed in those days. Black had been his choice, as Elrond recalled. Black leggings and black jerkin. He had often fought barefoot, and yes, he *had* smiled on those occasions when hard pressed: a strangely exalted expression as he raised his sword or dagger in some desperate defence against what had always appeared to be older and larger opponents.
And what had Erestor done, faced with cold shoulders all round, until Glorfindel arrived? Erestor had worked, apparently with a will, for Imladris’ Master, for Imladris’ good, for the Elven Kingdoms’ security against threats big and small, in return receiving small praise or thanks, nor the least little part of warmth or friendship. Horrified, Elrond had discouraged the twins from fellowship with Erestor when he saw them willing to befriend the Noldo, apparently thoroughly enjoying his company while arguing over the merits of the music being played in the Halls that night. How must Erestor have felt when he had put an abrupt stop to their conversation? He had not remotely cared.
He pondered those details that Erestor had clearly tended with patient dedication in his rooms. Small repairs that Elrond’s sharp inspection had detected in cracked furnishings, the resinous shine of even the legs of the desk and cot. The carvings Erestor had wrought in the bed head and foot. The trail of stones that wound around the desk and when he looked, other corners of the room. Such brightly veined river stones winding around that splash of red. There was no such colour in the clothes-presses; nothing lay folded on the shelves he had not himself ordered the tailor to provide. The lack of a single garment in any hue save the darker shades was evidence enough that Erestor had not felt at liberty to obtain clothes of his own choosing. Elrond had made arrangements for Erestor’s wardrobe with the tailor in an afterthought thrown over his shoulder during a fitting for himself. “Erestor, my new advisor, needs clothes. His wardrobe will need surveying twice a year. I will not have him shabby. See him provided with his needs. Sufficient changes for normal leisure, nightshirts, riding gear. Provide him as befits a councillor of mine but soberly and send me the account.” Such casual orders to keep him clothed in black and brown.
Would Erestor have clad himself so darkly by his own choice? Remembering the long-ago flamboyant attire, Elrond thought not. Red silk tunic worked with green and gold thread, sashed with gold satin over green leggings edged with red-on-gold embroidery might shock, but there was no doubt how well they had suited Erestor’s moonlit-night complexion. Erestor and fine clothes went together hand in glove: his councillor’s formal robes looked well enough, and suited his role, but he did not look like Erestor wearing them. He had not looked like Erestor since he had bent his knee to Elrond in the rain.
Rarely before Glorfindel’s arrival, had he glimpsed the elf that existed beneath his façade of duty, the Erestor who lounged in red silk exchanging lightening sharp wit and smiled ferally under attack in training. Perhaps Meren and his predecessors had allowed a glimpse. Elrond had grown used to Erestor going out to the stables at all hours of the evening and night, to ride far and fast until dawn saw his return. He had hesitated before allowing it the first time when Erestor had approached him with the request, half-foreseeing trouble, and certainly not expecting him to turn up for work on time in the morning. Elrond had kept a light touch of awareness on where he went, but Erestor merely circled the paths this side of the Bruinen with nothing more on his mind than his horse, the night wind and the stars overhead: those and his stifling need to escape the walls of the house. For that reason Elrond had let him go, despite his qualms. Erestor had appeared in the morning as demure as ever and before the appointed hour, but Elrond had not missed the flash of desperate gratitude on receiving his permission.
Impatient to have done with what he must confront, Elrond got to his feet, and checked Erestor’s desk. No-one in the scribes’ hall knew where he was, only that Glorfindel had born him off earlier.
*** The western meadows of Imadris 1498 T.A. ***
Erestor slept in the sun, unthinkably wasting the whole afternoon, and Glorfindel let him without the least compunction after the unpleasantness and stress of recent days.
Elrond found them eventually after a rather long search, and seeing Erestor sleeping, addressed his Captain quietly. “There are things I think you should be told, matters I wish to discuss with you. He hasn’t told you his history, has he? But I can tell you now the matter of his rooms was an oversight never intended and can be rectified without delay.”
Elrond waited. It proved enough. Shamed though he be, he had never thought Glorfindel would make him crawl.
Glorfindel cocked his head, and then nodded. “My thanks for bearing with me, Lord Elrond.”
Elrond smiled twistedly at the courtesy. “You were very right to bring it to my attention.”
“You are gracious, Lord of Imladris.” Glorfindel made him a little bow.
Elrond’s eyes flew to Glorfindel’s to find mockery or sarcasm, but there was none. Glorfindel was offering him the same warm smile he always had, and Elrond felt a compelling desire to tell him everything. “It has been very – difficult. In some things I know I have been wrong. But Erestor is not here without reason, Glorfindel, you must understand that. Galadriel is not arbitrary, and Erestor may have bided his duties here faithfully, but he was not always so helpful to our ends as you see him now. We must talk.
“You should know Pirrith has all in hand for making over that block of the house. Erestor can choose his own accommodations meanwhile and either work with the Steward to have suitable chambers prepared there during the course of the rebuilding, or settle permanently elsewhere in the house. It makes no difference what he chooses. Pirrith will see him about it. And I shall be awarding him a stipend.”
That oversight had been a deliberate one in the beginning, reckoned Glorfindel, perhaps a reasonable precaution in Erestor’s early tenure. As to the rest, he would suspend judgement, curiosity whetted to know more, until he dragged the details out of one of them; clearly Elrond was amenable, if still ambivalent about the elf asleep between them.
“Well, you *have* been wrong.” He did not hide his acerbic agreement, for Elrond had said it, not he. “How could you treat anyone like that, Elrond?”
Elrond laughed humourlessly, waking Erestor, but he could not help it. Glorfindel was uniquely himself. He had little doubt others would have hastened to assure him that he would put all right and it was very understandable in the circumstances. He was glad that Glorfindel was here with his astringent observations and under no illusions about his lord, especially when Elrond spotted confused apprehension on Erestor’s face on being woken to harsh laughter and his lord standing over him.
He looked at him, really *looked* at him. He saw an elf he did not know in the least, except for those familiar and intensely irritating mannerisms that sat so ill on Erestor’s elegant person, the flush under Elrond’s stare and the ever-deflected glance when Elrond looked at him directly.
“Erestor, I will not burden you while you are resting by saying much, but I think we should sit down together and talk. I will tell you that I regret certain of your treatment here among us. I will see to it that Imladris shall treat you rather better in future. The rest will keep, except to tell you that I intend to give further consideration to the plans you raised. I wish to hear what you have to propose, although you must be aware that any such excursion would involve certain conditions.
“I will want Glorfindel’s advice and there is much he does not know. We need to talk – of many things.”
Erestor stared at him, bemused more by Elrond’s manner than by being woken from sleep. Elrond maintained his usual austere distance, but the measured enquiry of his close inspection and the content of his speech both came as a surprise.
“Yes, my lord,” said Erestor.
“I am at your disosal, Elrond, whenever you wish,” Glorfindel agreed, wondering if he should offer to go in with him straightaway, but Elrond nodded.
“Very well.” He bowed slightly and went off somewhat lighter of heart than he had arrived, thanks to Glorfindel’s earthy honesty and straightforward reception, and almost, but not quite, finding Erestor’s gawping stare funny.
***
Glorfindel was pleased with his day’s work, hopeful for Erestor, and greatly relieved by Elrond’s reasonable responses. Such perilous callousness had alarmed the elf-lord more than he had cared to admit. He felt far more relaxed than at any time in the last few days.
He sprawled reaching across the fragrant grass, rooting for any dregs of wine or corners of sweet roll and polished all the napkins clean of their midday treats. There were indeed two fingers of the wine left in the bottle and he drank it all, washing down crumbs, before drawing Erestor close to him, which for a wonder the other elf did not resist, apparently nearly asleep again, just as glad to relinquish his questions and go back to sleep in the sun.
Never that interested in food – meal after meal served with Maglor’s edged looks and Caranthir’s pointed humour had early put Erestor off any healthy enjoyment of eating – he was too tired to share the leftovers, shaking his head sleepily, mulling over Elrond’s words. He sighed, feeling Glorfindel’s arm lie loosely curved across his breast. It felt too good, and he too tired, to question the golden elf’s motives or move away.
He merely made sure to say, “If I let you hold me like this, you know it doesn’t mean anything.”
Glorfindel went very still, and then kissed his hair, just once. “Erestor, it *means* that it feels good to lie here with you in the sun and that I am in a mellow mood: Elrond is brought back to something better than unwarranted behaviour, and you have an income, new chambers, and a journey to look forward to. I am entirely smug about my day’s work. But I have a confession. I showed him your rooms.”
“Oh. Well, I knew something had affected Elrond, obviously to do with me, and that you were instrumental. If it wasn’t a dream at least. My rooms, you say?”
“I made sure beforehand they were neat, and nothing left out private. I knew you might mind, and you may take me to task in any way that you feel fitting, but I had no better idea. I would not let Elrond continue as he was, and arguing would get me nowhere. Blind is blind. Quite apart from your welfare,” he dropped another small kiss, taking advantage of Erestor’s sleepy resignation over his enjoyment of Glorfindel’s touch, “it was no good for him to behave like that. No good for Imladris, and a very bad example. And if this Harad trip is as potentially useful as you suspect, counterproductive.”
“Mmm,” said Erestor, unwilling to bestir himself for any business of state, even if it touched so closely on his purpose in going to Harad. He had not realized how on edge he had been for so long. Living on the borders of social sufferance had taken a toll on his energies he had failed to appreciate, as had hoping for an acknowledgement from Elrond that might never come. Befriended, safe, encircled, he was bonelessly tired and cared for nothing. Duties were everlasting and could wait an afternoon. He luxuriated in the guilt of that thought and curled closer into Glorfindel’s heat along his legs and back. He put a hand on the heavy arm draped over his chest which had tightened when Erestor drew nearer, and rested his cheek on Glorfindel’s other forearm, conveniently flung just where it was comfortable to rest his head. He prepared to fall asleep once more.
On the brink of Irmo’s kingdom, he forced himself to say, “You know he’s right. There is much you do not know.”
Glorfindel hesitated. “More than the camp?”
Erestor opened his eyes again onto the green of the meadow and its dotted plethora of colours where flowers burgeoned, scenting the air. His expression hardened, hidden from the Captain since they lay Erestor’s back to Glorfindel’s front: Erestor considered his past.
“You are very quick to befriend an elf you do not know, and one for whom your lord does not vouch,” he observed evenly.
“Galadriel vouched for you.”
“Galadriel – Celeborn actually – was the one who *arrested* me, Lord Glorfindel. And brought me here.” Erestor rolled out of arm’s hold and sat up, better to contemplate the Captain. “You went to the Grey Havens when you first returned? Stayed with Círdan?”
“Aye, he made me right welcome. We got on well, and then he brought me here.”
“You should talk to him, you know. He could tell you much. Did you listen to what Elrond said two days ago?”
“You’ve served Elrond well, since then.”
“Aye, I have.” And then he added, “I had my reasons.” Indeed, he had not wanted to live and work in the mines for one thing, a motive Elrond attributed to him. There were others.
Glorfindel considered what he saw. The vulnerability and the eyes that had seen too much were unchanged, but Erestor displayed as well a hint of clarity, as if to suggest he would say – and do – that which he decided upon, sure of his purpose, come what may.
“The sun is high and we were comfortable, Erestor. I am still comfortable.” He grinned. “Right now I would prefer to continue our picnic than suffer a lesson in past history. Can I tempt you to join me once more? Or I will go inside with you and listen if you must unburden yourself.” He glanced around with regret, delighting in an afternoon off and the possibility of an armful of Erestor.
“Hardly, my lord,” his low husky voice came back in quiet answer.
There it was again, the honorific they had rarely used between them, as if Erestor was preparing for far less easy manners in future. He let it go. He guessed he would have to let many things pass unchallenged if he persisted in his determination to have Erestor accept him. He refused to believe his instincts wrong. Erestor could not put him off. “So? Can a little while longer under the auspices of Anor tempt you, Councillor? Might lingering under the adornments of this gold-lit tree appeal?” He delivered his word-play with deliberation and watched Erestor make up his mind.
Amused, Erestor eyed the large body, and looked around. The afternoon was laden with smells of rain, tree and flower, and the air moved about them in invitation to stay, stirring grasses and whisking off again to ripple the water of the brook where it fell over the stones and roots along its bed. The tathar above them was indeed lit up by golden touches among the leaves. They hung suspended from slender trailing branches which fell in interwoven tresses from above, feigning to source light themselves in their diffuse reflection of Anor’s slanting rays. He took a deep breath at the richness of the sight before dropping his gaze to the companion similarly adorned by golden glory.
He had neither wish nor need to talk further, and to retire for soul-stripping conferences inside was the last of his preferences. Silently, almost as if recalling long-gone days when pandering to such company was the norm, he rose and moved with haunting grace toward the elven lord. He lay down as before, facing away, and suffered the embrace to be renewed, falling lightly around him. Only the slightest of hesitations in relaxing betrayed his doubt that this was wise. He doubted he would ultimately follow where Glorfindel led.
He doubted he would follow anyone ever again.
End of Chapter Nine
Tbc
Quenya and Sindarin:
Hröa (Q) – body
Fëa (Q) – element of elven life made of spirit
Melmendur (Q) – catamite (lit. love servant)
Glorfindel (S) – (>golden light from the golden tree Laurelin
Author's Chapter Notes:
Summary: Elrond remembers his own feelings and Erestor’s past. He makes a few decisions. Erestor has reservations about Glorfindel’s attempts at friendship, but a sunny afternoon proves tempting.Vocab. (Quenya and Sindarin):
Hr̦a (Q) Рbody
Fëa (Q) – element of elven life made of spirit
Melmendur (Q) – catamite (lit. love servant)
Glorfindel (S) – (>golden light from the golden tree Laurelin