Title: Cowards Who Daydream
Author: Ezra's Persian Kitty (ezraspersiankitty@yahoo.com)
Type: FPS
Pairing: Glorfindel/Erestor
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Glorfindel's distracted again.

= = = = =

COWARDS WHO DAYDREAM


Part 1


"You are distracted," Elrond observed, not unkindly.

Glorfindel turned his smiling face to his Lord.
"Yes," he happily agreed. "I am."

Elrond could not help but smile back at seeing one so
wholly consumed with joy. "And what, may I ask, has
stolen your attention this day?" It was a question he
had asked many times before and was unsurprised to
receive the usual response.

"Tis the same distraction as usual, Elrond."
Glorfindel seemed quite unperturbed and his smile
remained unbroken as he turned to gaze out the window.

"You've accomplished very little work," Elrond
observed, raising a critical eyebrow.

"You're right," Glorfindel agreed with a contented
little sigh. "I haven't."

Elrond tried to hide his smile, but couldn't quite
manage it. "I suppose it matters little, seeing as we
are several days ahead of schedule."

Glorfindel nimbly twirled a brown quill between large
fingers. "That's what I thought," he agreed in a
breathy sigh, watching the feather spin back and
forth.

Elrond leaned in across the desks that separated them
to carefully observe Glorfindel's happy features. He
said, quite seriously, "And shall you ever confide in
me?"

"I may," Glorfindel smiled, setting down the quill,
the ink smearing the desktop. "Why do you want to
know?"

"Because I am curious of course," Elrond answered. "I
know you, Glorfindel. I know your habits and your
manners, your routines and your values. I know that
you detest time wasted in daydreaming and mediocre
work accomplished by those who may be . . .
distracted."

"But my Lord," Glorfindel light-heartedly protested,
"I should never fall to such deplorable acts. In the
presence of those beneath my command," he added. His
smile became one of bemused self-ridicule. "Even I
allow myself the weakness of daydreams, Elrond." His
voice was deep and his eyes were focused on something
Elrond would never see. "Even I may succumb to the
happy places found only by a mind weakened with wonder
in the pleasantly warm breezes of lazy summers."

"I wonder what has so wholly consumed your dreams, my
friend."

"Can you not guess?" Glorfindel finally asked him, his
smile weakening.

"If you were a few Ages younger," Elrond suggested, "I
should venture you were under the influence of love."

Glorfindel beamed at him. "And what difference should
the passing of years make? Love afflicts us all!
Even myself."

Elrond, excited now, leaned even further in and his
voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you mean to tell me
that your head is swelled with nothing more important
than the wonders of love?" Elrond was thrilled. "Why
have you not told me! How did I not guess!"

"Of course it is love," Glorfindel answered him
smoothly. "Of course I never told you, because you
are an old goat who will insist on interfering, and of
course you never guessed because you did not care to
think your Captain so fortunate as to fall hopelessly
in love after such a long time." He was still
smiling, rather goofily.

Elrond sat up ramrod straight and grinned wildly.
"For nearly a hundred years now I have seen you
swooning in the window seat when you thought none
there to witness it!" Elrond cheerfully declared.
"And now you say it is love!" He once more leaned
conspiratorially forward to whisper, "Who is it you
love? Who else knows? What have you done about it?"

Glorfindel smiled at him gently, as though indulging a
spoiled child. "I shan't tell you. I've told no one.
I've done nothing."

Elrond, unsurprised at the first two, burst out with,
"Nothing?! You merely hide yourself away to daydream
when you please and you haven't done a bloody thing
about it?!"

Puzzlement finding a way into the infernal smile,
Glorfindel asked, "What do you expect me to do?"

"I should think you might make some advances toward
the object of your affections," Elrond readily
answered. "That is the way of things: you fall in
love, you pursue your love, you." Elrond frowned and
did not finish his speech.

Glorfindel matched the expression with a melancholy
glower of his own. "Yes Elrond, and then what?
Either you become happier than you can imagine, or you
fall into the deepest pits of despair. I do not wish
to succumb to anything more than the simple
pleasantries of my daydreams. I do not wish to fall
to the inane passion of fanatical lovers or the
pitiable sorrow of an unmatched love. I am content in
my daydreams, as most people would be if they had the
sense to stop there. Happiness gained can always be
lost. But love never pursued shall never be
squandered. Do you understand me now?"

Elrond's frown deepened and he looked upon his friend
with sorrow in his cloudy grey eyes. "All too well,
Glorfindel. And you are mistaken, for I do pity you.
Just the smallest bit I pity the coward too fearful to
seek love."

= = = = =

Glorfindel was irritable all week. Everyone noticed
it.

But of course, no one would say anything. It was
unusual, but it would pass, as such things always
eventually must do. Elrond made a point of scowling
fiercely whenever Glorfindel was about, but Erestor
and Lindir just avoided the irrational blonde and all
Glorfindel's soldiers made it a priority to simply not
irritate him.

And pass it did, this foul mood, after only a few
days. And Glorfindel readily returned to his
good-natured self.

And only once in a great while would Elrond find his
Captain lounging lazily about with a contented smile
on his face, eyes focused on a distant daydream.
Often in the office after the day's work was done, or
sometimes outside perched upon the branch of a
resolute tree Elrond would find him. The Lord found
his Captain's happiness to be quite infectious and
would -- more often than not -- find a similar smile
creeping upon his own features before he reminded
himself that Glorfindel was a coward and was not meant
to be envied.

= = = = =

Years later, Glorfindel had an abrupt epiphany.

He was in his office in the afternoon, for that was
how his day progressed. The mornings began with a
simple inspection and he spent his time until the
lunch hour supervising training and exercise programs,
occasionally seeing to other business that needed
doing in the realm of Imladris. After lunch was his
appointed office hour, and he would always spend more
time than he truly wished to pouring over the
never-ending paperwork required of him. He would, on
occasion, be overheard complaining bitterly that a
captain's place was hardly behind a desk, but his
complaints were rare and insincere, so no one was
particularly bothered. His evenings were his own to
do with as he pleased; his pleasures ranged from
hunting in his Lord's land to conversing and singing
in the Hall of Fire to sitting in the quiet company of
Elrond's Chief Counselor reading a book, and it was
not uncommon to find him lending a hand in the
kitchens, which were always understaffed, particularly
in the springtime.

This afternoon should have been no special occasion,
for there was little trouble in Imladris and the most
exciting thing to have happened in the past decade was
a chicken that somehow got loose in Elrond's chambers.
Glorfindel, of course, had had nothing to do with the
incident.

The office he worked in was neither large nor small.
It was appointed in fine dark woods and deep, cool
colors. There were many books and a few plants and a
small fireplace for the colder winters. There was
only one window, which faced east. It afforded enough
light in the afternoon for elven eyes however, and
Glorfindel had need of a candle on only the cloudiest
of days. There were in the office two desks, which
were situated opposite one another. The desks were
identical, for the same hands had made them, but a
glance at where they sat beneath the wide window would
tell much of those who used them.

The desk Glorfindel worked at was forever accumulating
things. Not just his papers, which sat in disorderly
piles to either side of him, but all sorts of random
bric-a-brac. There was always a weapon lying about
that needed sharpening or some such, and small piles
of coin that were weighing down his pockets and
drinking glasses he'd forgot to return to the kitchens
and a skillfully crafted pipe that he occasionally
indulged in -- though never in the office, for his
officemate would consider such an offense worthy of a
hanging at the very least. Since there were children
forever running about Imladris and since children in
Imladris loved little more than Glorfindel, there were
always drawings tacked up on the windowsill or tucked
between the pages of a book or propped up on his
collection of things. So too could be seen broken
toys, from dolls to toy carriages and wooden swords,
which the children brought to him in his office,
knowing that he was surely the one best suited to
fixing them.

The desk opposing him belonged to Erestor, the Chief
Counselor. They had shared an office for nearly as
long as Imladris had stood, and it suited them
perfectly well, for Erestor used the space in the
mornings and then spent his afternoons traipsing about
the House, seeing to what needed seeing to. And it
was only rarely that they ever had need of the office
at the same time, otherwise their contentment would
not have lasted nearly as long as it had and the
desks, certainly, would not have long remained in such
a configuration. As it was, Glorfindel's things were
continuously flowing onto the other desk, an irritant
to its keeper, who insisted upon tidiness in all
facets of his life. Erestor would not stand for the
busted quills and empty inkpots and scrap papers to
slowly gain his territory, and he would quickly
dispose of them. His own desk boasted a beautiful
scrollwork unit to one side that held all his
most-used utensils in their proper places; the surface
was always neat and clean, with only his most recent
work before him, and the drawers beneath painstakingly
filed.

On this particular afternoon, not long before the
unforeseen epiphany, Glorfindel entered the office
after lunch to find Erestor still working. "Good
afternoon, Erestor," he greeted his officemate. He
closed the door behind him and sat at his desk.

Erestor had one white hand splayed upon the fine
parchment, his other neatly grasping a rare green
quill, when he looked up from his correspondence. A
tangle of black hair fell from behind his pointed ear
to cover one dark brown eye; his expression was one of
vague surprise and Glorfindel was taken aback to see a
smudge of violet ink across Erestor's cheek. Surely
the Counselor couldn't know it was there, for he was
most meticulous about his appearance. Glorfindel
smiled at him.

Erestor smiled back. It wasn't what one would usually
call a smile, but Glorfindel had known Erestor long
enough to recognize the gentle smirk for what it truly
was. "Afternoon," Erestor murmured before bowing
again to his work, his free hand reaching up to tuck
away the black strand of hair into its proper place.

= = = = =

This was not yet the moment of the epiphany, but it
was an important moment just the same.

= = = = =

Glorfindel went about his afternoon routine. Firstly,
he grabbed up a clean scrap of paper and drew up a
list for himself of all the things that needed
accomplishing. Then, he organized them into three
categories. The top category was `Do Today.' After
that came, `Try to Do Today.' Lastly was, `You'll
Probably End Up Doing It Tomorrow.'

It was quite often that something that ended up in the
third category stayed there for some weeks, and
Glorfindel got behind schedule. But the things that
really needed doing usually got done, so he really
wasn't terrible at this other part of his job; he just
didn't find it as fascinating to organize messengers
as it was to thrust a sword at people's heads.

As he jotted down all the things that needed doing, he
looked up on occasion to spy upon Erestor, who
remained steadfastly in his seat working. "What keeps
you in the office today, Erestor?" he finally asked,
curious.

When Erestor looked up again, that same tendril of
hair snaked down to obscure his vision, and he puffed
at it to make it shift further away. "There's a
changeover coming up this month," he answered quietly.
"And Elrond is behind in his correspondences. My
afternoon is devoted to ensuring the legibility of
these letters and getting them on the road as soon as
may be. Then the rosters must be posted by sunrise in
two days' time. And no matter what I do, no one will
be happy: there's only a four hour turnaround."

Glorfindel nodded. "Changeovers are the worst," he
sympathized before returning to his work.

An hour later, however, he had accomplished very
little. He lightly threw down his quill with great
annoyance. "Blast," he muttered.

Erestor looked up. "You seem distracted, my friend.
If you have no pressing matters to attend to, take the
afternoon for yourself today. Elrond would not
disapprove."

Glorfindel only heard one word Erestor said.
"Distracted?"

Tilting his head curiously, Erestor answered in his
slow, quiet voice, "Aye. Today you are fidgeting like
a child where you sit, and your gaze keeps drifting to
the window. And," he nodded at Glorfindel's
workspace, "you've made a mess of your papers. Rest,
Glorfindel. Perhaps you have been working over-hard."

Slowly Glorfindel thought about this, and finally he
nodded. "My energy is restless this day. I think I
shall adjourn to the yard."

Erestor smirked. He bent his head once more to his
work and Glorfindel heard him mutter, "For surely
nothing is so calming as swinging a metal stick at
your colleagues."

Glorfindel harrumphed and stood, leaving his messy
desk as it was to stalk out the office. He did not
slam the door until he amended, "It's a SWORD,
Erestor."

= = = = =

The epiphany came not long after when Elrond was
rushed to the training yard by frantic sentries.
Glorfindel was propped against the trunk of a tree, a
monstrous gash in his thigh.

Elrond was all professionalism as he tore away some
fabric, cleaned the wound, sewed it up, and forced
some horrible concoction down Glorfindel's throat.
Then he sent off all of Glorfindel's men and when they
were alone the Lord of Imladris hurled a diatribe of
vitriol so sharp at his Captain that Glorfindel could
do naught but hang his head and agree to everything,
lest Elrond truly lose his temper: a frightening sight
indeed, as anyone who has witnessed it might tell.

"Well," Elrond finally summed up his inspiring lecture
on fools in general and soldiers in particular, "How
came this to be?" He gestured menacingly to the
previously gaping wound in Glorfindel's leg.

Wincing at the pain, Glorfindel sighed and answered,
"It was a routine skirmish with one of my new
recruits, Silinde. I gave him free range and he came
at me with a thrust I should have been able to parry,
but I was--"

This, then, was the moment of epiphany.

"I SWEAR, Glorfindel." Elrond spoke slowly, his tone
dark and his eyes menacing. Each word was a
conviction, and he made Glorfindel's name a curse.
"If you tell me you were distracted, I am going to
forbid you from holding a sword."

Glorfindel's luminous blue eyes were huge and round as
he stared disbelievingly at the ground. He thought;
he thought through the past hours of his life. He
looked up to his Lord and proffered the sword still
gripped in his hand. "You'd better take this then."
His voice, when he spoke, was unlike itself. It was
small and choked and fearful. "Until you deem me fit
enough to take it up again."

Elrond nearly snarled in distaste, plucking the weapon
out of Glorfindel's weak grasp. Then the warrior
struggled to his feet and limped off painfully across
the yard toward the House, slowly and without a
backward glance and without another word.

Once he had gone, Elrond swore violently and let the
sword fall to the dusty ground with a dull clang.
"Damn miserable fool," he proclaimed hurtfully.

= = = = =
= = = = =

Part 2

Glorfindel sat ruminating in his chambers. He was
sprawled on his grand bed, his injured leg propped
upon some pillows with a pot of tea ready beside him
on the night table next to a bouquet of freshly cut
flowers. An open but unlooked-for book lay limply in
his hand as he stared blankly at the wall opposing
him.

He kept rubbing the thumb and fingers of his free hand
together in something like a nervous gesture as his
wide eyes occasionally blinked to keep off the dust.

There's no way to know how long he would have remained
in such a state had not his reverie been broken by a
polite tap at the door.

He blinked, though unsurprised at the interruption.
He'd already had more visitors than he cared for.
"Come in."

Glorfindel was surprised, however, at who stepped
through the door. It was Erestor. His somber robes
-- neat and clean -- his immaculate hair, and
altogether tidy and sober appearance seemed out of
place in Glorfindel's bright, cluttered room, and for
a moment Glorfindel took into his head the idea of
painting a portrait of Erestor standing there,
perfectly out of place.

"I take it you're going to survive then?"

Knowing Erestor as well as he did, it was easy for
Glorfindel to hear both the humor and concern in the
Counselor's droll statement. "I will if people stop
pestering me," Glorfindel answered, glaring darkly
around himself at the book, the pot of tea, the vase
of flowers.

"Well then, I'm so delighted I thought to bring you
something." Erestor's mouth wasn't smiling, but his
voice was.

Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Not you, too . . ."

"Yes me too, but I -- unlike others -- understand that
tea is not a cure-all, flowers do not heal, and books
do not distract from pain. I thought you might amuse
yourself better by keeping your hands busy,
considering how little you choose to use your mind."

Glorfindel overlooked the slight on his intelligence
when Erestor placed into his open hands a small block
of soft wood and a whittling knife. He handled the
gifts reverently, as though they were delicate and
precious things. Looking up into Erestor's deep dark
eyes, he found himself to be quite speechless.

Darting those eyes away, Erestor searched about and
pulled up a nearby chair, first folding the shirt that
was hanging off its arm. He sat himself down and
looked to his own hands curled in his lap as he spoke,
quiet and sincere. "I remember a time when things in
Imladris were different. There were times when it
seemed there was hardly anything to do. In the deep
of those summers three hundred years ago; do you
remember? No visitors, no harvesting, no threat of
snow or chill. There were weeks spent luxuriating in
the knowledge that we had no obligations and no
worries. I remember. I remember how you used to
clutter up the shelves of the House with little
figurines and models and miniature carvings." Erestor
stopped himself, smiling as he weakly blushed. "I
thought you might enjoy it," he said of his gifts.

"I know I will," Glorfindel finally managed.

= = = = =

When Elrond dropped in on his patient for the
afternoon visit, he was slightly shocked and more than
slightly aggravated to find wood shavings covering the
quilt.

He had knocked softly and then crept into the room
when there was no response. He had been glad to see
Glorfindel sleeping restfully, gold hair in a braid
like rope over the pillow, a small and fairly harmless
knife in one hand, and something of indeterminable
shape clutched in the other. The blue and white quilt
that covered him above his waist was littered with
splinters and tiny curls of wood. The scent of pine
was overwhelming.

Despite his minute disapproval, the half-Elf halted at
the sight, taken back so many years ago when
Glorfindel had actually had time to indulge in this
favored hobby.

For a moment, Elrond wondered from whence these gifts
might magically have come, but then noticed a path of
folded clothes from the door to the bed and he knew
that Erestor had come. He shook his dark head and
took up the seat at Glorfindel's side. "Looks like
you're getting closer," he whispered fondly to his
charge. Then, deciding that he didn't have anything
better to do, he took on the painstaking task of
picking all the shards of wood from atop Glorfindel's
sleeping form, nails deftly grasping hold of the
tiniest splinters that had wiggled into the tight wool
of the quilt.

After disposing of the sawdust, Elrond removed the
knife and set it on the bedside table. Then, he
tenderly pried the chunk of wood from between the
clutching fingers that had hidden it. Elrond gasped,
holding the thing close before his eyes as though his
own inner light might illuminate its meaning, though
the meaning was clear enough.

He had never seen Glorfindel form a tiny sculpture
quite like this. It appeared as though a rose bloomed
entwined with edelweiss from within a curving
seashell. The artwork was frighteningly lifelike,
despite the dark grain of the wood, and the symbolism
was appallingly clear.

Love. The rose was love. No matter your age or race,
you knew this. The rose had always been love; the
rose would always be love. Though a rose is also
graced with thorns.

The edelweiss. A hard-won or unattainable goal, for
the edelweiss flower grew high among the dangerous
crags and was difficult to find and to pick and to
keep.

The seashell. The sea. The Sea. Long had the sea
been a bittersweet call to many Elves. For beyond the
Sea lay an eternal home.

Then, as Elrond cradled the little thing no bigger
than a fist in his two careful hands, he felt an odd
texture on the bottom. He turned the sculpture over
to find a knotwork design painstakingly etched into
the flat bottom of the pine block.

He could not suppress the gasping sigh. The Golden
Flower. The Acorn. Hopelessly and carelessly and
irreversibly interlaced.

Not many knew that Erestor's family symbol was the
acorn, but doubtless Glorfindel had known and had
carved this piece with a purpose.

Elrond set the carving beside the knife and leaned
over the blue-white bed to kiss Glorfindel's calm,
cool brow. "If this doesn't do it," he told the deep
sleeper, "I swear I'll tear my hair out."

He stood and retreated, whispering into the room
again, "You're absolutely hopeless. Both of you."

= = = = =

Erestor came again the next day.

Glorfindel met the knock with an eager, "Come in!" and
upon the sight of Erestor's dark form, he pulled
himself to sit up straight in the bed, the long blond
braid hanging over his shoulder. Glorfindel glanced
aside to the statue, suddenly wishing he could hide
it.

But as Erestor took shuffling steps across the room,
he wasn't looking at the carving or at Glorfindel.

"Erestor?"

The Counselor sat in the chair, hands in his lap, face
paler than usual. "I'm sorry . . . How is your leg?"

"Oh. Better."

"Good."

"What, Erestor? No insults, witty insinuations about
my intelligence?"

Large brown eyes peered out from under that loose
strand of black hair. "Glorfindel, I don't always
take pleasure in tormenting you."

"I know," he smiled. "Just usually."

"Um," Erestor reached into the folds of his dark robes
and dug around, looking for something. "I . . . I
meant to give this to you." Finally, he came up with
a folded packet of papers. He stood and passed it
with a shaky hand to the golden Elf on the bed.

Glorfindel took the parchment, examining it curiously.
It was worn and faded, as though it had lived in
Erestor's pocket the past hundred years, frequently
read and handled, though it very clearly had his name
on.

He looked up, saying, "Erestor?"

But the Elf was long gone, the door open, and
Glorfindel was alone.

So he unfolded the papers to read.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Glorfindel.

Love letters are not my style. They are
old-fashioned, sentimental, and cowardly. I, however,
admit freely -- to you if to no one else -- that I am
all these things now that my heart has finally
submitted to the angstful whimsies of love.

I imagine you may understand when I tell you that from
birth my life has been a turbulent one. I never had
time, I thought, for love. In that callow youth of
mine, I did not understand that we, most often, do not
have the opportunity to make choices where hearts are
concerned. When I grew older, I soon saw for myself
the great ironies, tragedies, and triumphs of love.
Always, however, they seemed distant to me. I saw,
but did not know, I was jealous, but did not recognize
it, I wanted, but could not discern what.

For sometime, I awaited the spark of love, eager to
discover when it would strike. Surely, I thought,
surely it would be soon, for so many of my companions
had been wed and begun families of their own. I
studied each new face I met, wondering, "Will he, will
she, be the one?"

But I continued growing older, and I never felt the
anticipated `spark.' I asked so many people how they
knew it, when the time came, that they were in love.
How very often did I receive that same answer: "I just
knew."

So still I waited, waited for that moment when I, too,
would know.

But it did not come. The years turned like the
seasons and all people knew war. Kingdoms and kings
rose and fell, and my friends of old who had `known'
they were in love were long dead until one Age passed
into the next and I realized that I was no longer
counted among those who were young.

I sooner identified with those old Elves who seemed
destined to remain forever alone, content with their
work and knowing quite well their place in the world.

It was a shock to me to realize this truth. I had
become old, set in my ways, and had long learned how
to live alone.

I quickly, though not easily, accepted that this would
be my way.

And it was my way. For a very long time. I saw the
passing of yet another Age. I saw, yet again, the
hopes of our race -- joined by the race of Men -- rise
above all else.

And I considered myself to be quite comfortably
entrenched in my life here at Imladris.

And so long had I been lonely, and content in that
loneliness, that when the spark of love flared within
me, I was quite mortified. `Now?' I asked the Valar.
`After a generous lifetime of accustoming myself to a
solitary living, you tempt me with a longing that
shall not be met?'

I was furious.

My body, so long a quiet and obedient thing, suddenly
grew restless with a need I had never known and knew
not how to control. My soul, so long singular,
selfish, and whole, suddenly demanded that it was not
whole and must be completed. My heart, so long
silent, ardently assured me that all this was true,
and that I -- finally -- was in love.

I debated with myself quite endlessly about it. But
body, soul, and heart were adamant, and not to be
swayed by any reason. My mind, it seemed, stood alone
against the assault of love.

`Then,' I asked whatever powers might be listening,
`why Glorfindel?' I had known you quite long enough
to be surprised at the revelation that I love only
you. And angry, too, certain that it was an ironic
adoration, certain that because you had never declared
your undying love for me that there was no possibility
that these feelings -- if that is what one calls this
waterfall-intensity of emotion -- would ever be
returned.

Denial, bargaining, none of it made any difference,
for the spark of love had kindled in me an immortal
fire, never to be smothered by the likes of time,
logic, or prayer.

Eventually, then, came my acceptance. I accepted that
my heart could not be exchanged like a deficient
weapon, or dismissed like an inept intern. I accepted
that I was gifted with love, but cursed too, for it
was a one-sided affair.

Love, as you can see, inspired in me something of a
melodramatic air.

Thusly, I began to learn the secrets of love that I
had expected to embrace at a much earlier time in my
life. And inexperienced though I admit I was, I
realized that it was a unique and daring love,
possibly quite different from any other. Firstly, I
am, to put it simply, ancient. I have seen and known
too much to breathe an innocent love. What I feel for
you will always be darkened by lust and by all the
complex disclosures that life offers us, for before I
knew love, I knew death; before I knew the singularity
of devotion, I knew the paranoia of betrayal. Before
I knew the joy of merely looking upon you, I knew the
terror of looking down the end of a blade. And before
I knew you, I knew myself; and how many people can
truly claim that?

On the other hand, I have learned that love changes a
person. You have changed me. I cannot list for you
these changes, for I myself do not know them, having
only the sudden knowledge that I am utterly different.
I will try, despite their vastness. I am different
because the free hours formerly spent in quiet and
personal study have been otherwise occupied by
spending time with you, or thinking about you, or
writing the most driveling romantic poetry on Arda
that I now keep in an old cargo box beneath my bed. I
am different, because I find on occasion that when I
should be working, I have fallen to despairing
daydreams. I am different because where there was
only dignity to be maintained in my presentation, I
now take the absurdly tedious care of attempting to
enhance my appearance on the chance that you should
notice it. I am different because where I once
identified the name `Glorfindel' in my everyday
discussions as a friend, I must now endure the little
leap my heart takes every time I hear your name
uttered. I am different because I endeavor to sit
near you so that I may gaze that more easily upon your
handsome countenance and eavesdrop on your
conversations, secretly hoping that you will mention
my name and nearly swooning with delight when you do.
I am different because I must now endure the constant
teasing from a good friend of mine who has divined for
himself my feelings for you, an embarrassment from
which I will never escape. I am different because my
once quiet body demands release, which I give it in
the dead of night with your name upon my lips. I am
different because I am in love.

So. Though I may be changed, I am still -- I convince
myself -- hopeless. Why, then, this? This trite
annotation? This hideously self-demoralizing
declaration?

I have told you: love has made me old-fashioned,
sentimental, and cowardly. Old-fashioned, because I
desire not only you, but a true courtship. Trinkets
and poems and dancing. Sentimental, because -- as you
can see -- I am suddenly overrun by emotion, and
nothing I have done has lessened it. Cowardly,
because I had planned to confess all of this to you
with my words, and not by some shaky scrawl upon scrap
bits of paper.

Glorfindel, confound it all, I love you.

Ever Yours,
Erestor

*~*~*~*~*~*

Glorfindel's hand dropped to his lap, clutching the
letter fiercely. He knew that he must have the
silliest smile on his face. He did not care.

He and Erestor were completely different, but he did
not care. He had been distracted from life by Erestor
for decades, but he did not care. He had been
thickheaded enough to wonder why at first and to mope
after that and then to submit to idle daydreams, but
he did not care now, because now there was love.

Blinking through tears he hadn't known were there,
Glorfindel spied a dark splotch against the open
doorway. He squeezed the tears out of his eyes to
find Erestor standing just beyond the threshold of his
room, staring blankly at him.

Glorfindel was stunned. "Thought I'd have to send my
guards to bring you here."

Erestor looked determinedly at the floor. "That,
originally, was my plan."

Glorfindel couldn't force the ridiculous smile away.
"But, you're here."

"Yes," Erestor blurted out quickly, the first overt
sign of his nerves.

"Why are you here?"

"Were you really going to send guards?"

"With manacles, if needed," Glorfindel assured him.
"I'm not going to let a little thing like crippling
pain get in my way." He was still smiling, this
ludicrously huge grin. "But you're here."

"Yes." Erestor took a deep breath. So
uncharacteristic. "I am determined to overcome my
cowardice."

"Is that why you're lurking by the door?"

"I'm not lurking."

"Erestor," Glorfindel purred in a warning voice.

"I love you." Erestor's eyes were wide with shock at
his own words.

Silence.

"Just, I just wanted to say that to you." Then, he
bolted.

"Guards!"

= = = = =
= = = = =

Part 3

Three hours later, the guards had been summoned, the
House and all its outlying areas searched, Glorfindel
lectured by Elrond, Elrond shouted at by Glorfindel,
and Erestor yet to be found.

Dinendal, Glorfindel's friend and lieutenant, sat in
the chair beside the bed, looking with an evaluating
eye at his Captain. "Glorfindel."

No reaction.

Dinendal continued, "Why do you have half the guard
and all the staff in Imladris searching for Erestor?"

"Because he's hiding from me."

"Why is he hiding from you?"

"Not sure. Exactly." Glorfindel laced his fingers
together and looked to his lap.

Dinendal raised a brow. "Not sure? Exactly?"

The blonde shook his head. "Call off the search,
Dinendal. It's useless, hunting Erestor in his own
territory. He knows this House better than anyone."

"I wouldn't say that," said a new voice.

Glorfindel and Dinendal turned to see Elrond in the
doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark.

"You know where he is?" Glorfindel asked with a touch
of fatigued hope.

"Yes."

They waited.

"You won't tell me, will you?"

Elrond stepped into the room, glared at Dinendal, and
nodded toward the hall.

Dinendal left without a word, closing the door behind
him.

Elrond stood at the bedside, glared down at
Glorfindel, and raised a brow.

Glorfindel said, "After centuries of stagnant,
mystifying daydreams, things are moving very quickly
all of a sudden."

"About time," Elrond smiled at him. "But I want to
know why the House is crawling with armed guards and
you've my staff in an uproar."

Gesturing to the bed, Glorfindel pointed out, "I would
chase him down myself, you know. As you can see, he's
purposely left me in the lurch and I don't appreciate
it."

"You don't sound angry. And you're smiling."

"I think I've been smiling for the past three hours
without stopping." Glorfindel shook his head. He
picked up the carving from his bedside. "Elrond, if
he won't come to me, will you take this to him?"

Elrond took the pine statue in careful hands. His
voice was suddenly soft with empathic love, "Aye. I
can do that. Do you send a message with it?"

"No. --Yes! Tell him, `The first trinket.'"

He nodded and walked to the door. Before he left, he
turned back and told him, "But I'll give him the
eyebrow and tell him to come. He is a bit of a
coward, you know."

Elrond shut the door on Glorfindel's laughing, "So am
I!"

= = = = =

With little else to do, Glorfindel pretended to
content himself watching the changing sky out the
window. Bright afternoon blue was rolled over by
heavy dark clouds high above the valley, threatening
rain. Little droplets spit in a short fit against the
window and ceased not long after, running down the
uneven, leaded glass in bursting rivulets until the
sun shone again. The fiery brilliance of Anor burned
away the moisture and Glorfindel watched the drops
grow smaller and smaller against the bright light,
awed at the changing, pointillist landscape revealed
there on his window, as though he'd never seen such a
sight before.

Eventually, though, the sun disappeared over distant
hills and the sky performed another astonishing
display of color mutation, bright blue quickly
failing, overtaken by something paler, duller, less
intense. This evening, the west blared violet with a
hint of pink lining the last of distant gray clouds
before the colors muted altogether and swam into a
moment of dull void.

Glorfindel watched all this, and smiled when the first
curious stars blinked into existence, hanging in their
accustomed alignment on the dark net of the eternal
sky.

Then, without warning, the door opened. "Sorry I
neglected to knock," Elrond huffed, slightly brusque,
slightly annoyed, slightly amused. "But I walked by
and found this one loitering about."

It appeared, however, that Elrond was alone.

The expression on his face when he turned to look
behind him was priceless, had anyone been there to see
it. "Get in here!"

Erestor shuffled in.

"Good."

Then Elrond left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Glorfindel smiled but said nothing, observing the Elf
suddenly trapped in his rooms.

Erestor was quiet by nature, intelligent by chance,
cynical by choice, and altogether a gentleman, with a
lordly manner defined by fine values rooted in what
could only be the most native sort of hope.

But for the first time, he didn't appear to be.

Erestor cowered. That was the word for it. He stood,
shoulders curled in, head bowed, dark hair spilling
over to cover as much of a pale face as possible. His
hands -- delicate, long-fingered, with clear glassy
nails -- shook with some breed of fear. Maybe
anxiety, or apprehension. And those hands were
tightly clutching the little pine statue of seashell
and flowers. He said nothing.

Despite running away, despite leaving Glorfindel alone
to stew (frustrated and scheming), despite these
things, Glorfindel found it in no way possible to
berate, criticize, or rebuke this Elf, this being,
this creature who was all too different from himself
and yet had managed to wind his way to the center of
Glorfindel's continually growing world. Erestor.

"Erestor," Glorfindel told him, "I am very glad you
came back." Honesty was best, Glorfindel thought, and
in this case, the only possibility existent to him.

A small glance, flash of dark, and Erestor rolled his
eyes at his own cowardice. He lifted the carving so
that it was cradled to his breast and then tried a
small smile.

"Please," Glorfindel offered, sitting up even
straighter than he had upon Erestor's arrival, "sit."
He gestured to the now familiar chair. "Please don't
be so nervous," Glorfindel begged, still smiling. "I
love you too." His voice was suddenly softer than it
ever had been, delicate. Fragile. If only such
confessions demanded less of the confessors, perhaps
we would speak more often and truthfully of love.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Erestor asked, and then
covered his mouth, as would a child who had just
remembered he wasn't supposed to speak. But after a
moment, Erestor recovered. He dropped his hand and
slinked with shuffling steps closer to the chair, and
therefore closer to Glorfindel.

Encouraging nods from Glorfindel spurred the dark Elf
on until Erestor was sitting primly on the edge of the
chair, as a bird on a branch prepared to flee any
moment.

"Settle in," Glorfindel told him with a laugh.
"You're more than welcome here.

Erestor would not look at him. He studied instead the
fine craftsmanship of the trinket fondled in careful
hands.

"Your letter," Glorfindel started. "That little
carving," he tried again. He sighed. He never
stopped smiling. "I think we love each other quite a
lot. Can we not dispense with this cowardice of the
heart?"

Energetically, Erestor shook his head. He still did
not raise those fine, dark eyes.

"All right then. It looks like we'll be here for a
while, and I'll just keep talking, like I am, until
you weary of it, and finally break the monotony with
one of your well-timed insinuations, how does that
sound?"

"Perfect."

Glorfindel laughed. "Why so shy, Erestor?"

Shrug.

"Ah well," Glorfindel ran a hand over his head,
upsetting fine blond hair, and pulling a few strands
loose from the braid. And then he said no more.
Waiting.

Finally, Erestor moved. He tucked away the forever
disobedient tangle of hair from before his eyes and
raised his head to meet Glorfindel's expression.

Glorfindel's smile was charmingly disarming. "You
want to see some REALLY bad poetry?"

A shy smile touched Erestor's lips. He nodded.

Glorfindel gestured downward. "You're not the only
one who thinks the shadowy depths beneath the bed are
a perfect place to hide things. It's a wooden box,
carved with vines. You can't miss it."

Erestor knelt, with such humility and grace, at the
side of Glorfindel's bed, meeting his eyes the entire
time. Then he ducked down, black hair falling
silently over a black shoulder. Pale hands reached
under the bed skirt and a swift search resulted in a
smallish sort of box, carved from oak, beautifully
detailed with fantastical creatures like dragons and
winged horses on the lid, and ivy vines all round the
side.

His throat suddenly dry, Glorfindel gestured
wordlessly at the chair, and Erestor nimbly perched
upon it again, setting the flat box on his lap. He
reluctantly set the seashell carving on the bedside
table. "Open it," Glorfindel whispered.

Erestor opened the box. It was filled with papers.
He leafed through them with the careful hands of any
respectful librarian. He found a receipt that he had
signed at the delivery of iron from the Lonely
Mountains and raised an eyebrow at Glorfindel.

"It had your signature," he explained softly, though
with the toned implication that this should be the
most obvious thing in the world.

He watched as Erestor moved through the papers,
glancing at them. "That one!" Glorfindel nearly
shouted, pointing, "with the spirals doodled all along
the side. Read that one."

Erestor seemed mute; he handed the paper over to
Glorfindel.

Glorfindel took it, but with a sardonic little grin.
He noticed the tears beading in Erestor's eyes, but
said nothing of it. "You want me to read it. All
right." He held the thin parchment in careful fingers
and shook his head. "This was the first one," he said
with a laugh. He cleared his throat nervously:

"Find me a love to make me whole
Find me a heart to keep safe my love
I seek a mate to match my soul
I seek a star from above.

"A silent shadow haunts my steps
A shadowed beauty fills my dreams
Coal-black eyes mine soul traps
My songs of love: repeating themes.

"His eyes are night, filled with stars
His ebony locks are raven's wings
His shrouded heart mine heart scars
His vacant spirit my heart stings.

"This ode betrays my silent mind
These words reveal my hidden heart
A silent vow would our hearts bind
Declared, this secret would break us apart."

Glorfindel coughed, "That was . . . yeah. At my most
depressive. I got over it."

"So I can see."

"I don't think I shall ever stop smiling now."

Erestor again met his eyes. "Good." He looked then
to the box and idly moved a few papers around. "I
liked the poem."

"Thank you." He chuckled a little. "I'm sure yours
are better."

"I assure you, they are not." Erestor sighed.
"Glorfindel," he began.

But said nothing more.

"Yes," Glorfindel eagerly responded. "Please tell me
anything; I'll listen."

Erestor laughed. Just a little. "This is silly and
intense at the same time."

"Yes."

"How is your leg?"

"Oh. Better. Barely more than a superficial wound
anyway."

"Liar," Erestor called him. "Elrond told me it nearly
struck bone."

Glorfindel shrugged. "But it's getting better."

"Good."

Erestor stood. He set the box down on the chair.
Then, he gathered his robes and climbed daintily upon
the bed to sit just beside Glorfindel, their legs
stretched out before them, backs supported by the
mound of pillows.

Erestor took Glorfindel's hand, and rested -- with
swanlike grace -- his head upon Glorfindel's
shirt-clad shoulder. "Glorfindel," he said
matter-of-factly, the last of his cowardice shooed
away for the time being. "We have shared an office
for thousands of years without much in the way of
disagreement. Therefore, hope stands to reason that
shared lives would lead us no more astray. But, we
never see quite eye-to-eye at Council. Therefore,
logic decrees that home living bodes us ill. We have
both of us always been open-minded and accepting of
others' differences. Therefore, we should in theory
be as accepting of each other. But, you have no sense
of order and I rely on it. Therefore, equal footing
will be hard to find, if found at all--"

And Erestor would, in all likelihood, have continued
well into the night, if not for Glorfindel's tactful
interruption. The golden-haired Elf turned his head
and caught the debating lips in a kiss, quick and deep
and just right.

When he pulled back, only the very corners of his
mouth kept the fond smile, but all Erestor saw were
the deep, loving blue eyes. "I think," Glorfindel
told him, voice a little rough and low, "we'll make it
all work somehow."

"You're overly optimistic," Erestor whispered.

"Yes," Glorfindel off-handedly agreed. "And you're a
perspicacious scholar whose curse is eternal cynicism
and whose heart will never fail."

"Do I have to return that excessively maudlin
sentiment?"

"Tomorrow," Glorfindel told him. "Gives you time to
think up a really good one."

Erestor said nothing, only gripped Glorfindel's hand
all the tighter and turned to bury his face in the
crook of Glorfindel's neck, breathing deep.

Safe, content, loved, they slept.

But not before Erestor whispered, "A trinket. A poem.
You still owe me a dance." And he smiled.
"Perspicacious . . ."

= = = = =

The End.