Title: Even Quicker than Doubt
Author: keiliss
Email: scrapcat21@yahoo.com
Rating: overall PG-13, occasional NC-17
Pairing: Glorfindel/Gil-galad, Elrond/Erestor
Disclaimer: not mine, I just borrowed them
Beta: Chapters 1-9: Fimbrethiel, Chapters 10-24: Enismirdal
Summary: Glorfindel's new life in 2nd Age Lindon.


Chapter One

===( A hot, demanding mouth worked its way slowly down his neck,
sucking, nipping, sending little shocks of excitement flashing
through him. Strong hands were roaming over his back and shoulders,
rubbing, grasping

One hand moved lower, much lower, and began firm, circular motions
over the hard, engorged focus of the intense heat currently
spreading throughout his body.

The mouth withdrew from his neck, then soft lips found his own, and
a warm slick tongue pressed demandingly at his lips, forcing them
apart. His mouth was invaded, his tongue explored, ravished.

The mouth that now bruisingly commanded his tasted of sweet wine, a
sharp tooth caught his lip, causing a thrill of pain, but he was
heedless, answering desire with his own rising hunger.

A hand worked its way under his tunic, found bare flesh and began to
knead his back, hard, insistent motions drawing him closer to the
body writhing against his. The other hand fought its way beneath the
waistband of his leggings, searching, encircling, and firmly
grasping his erection...

"No," he murmured. "No, not now, not yet - please no - -"

The hand insisted, the mouth demanded, a sense of nameless panic
overcame him and he attempted to push the other away, to struggle
free...) ===

Glorfindel, formerly of Gondolin, sat bolt upright, gasping for
breath, the covers in a heap on the floor, the aftermath of the
dream manifested as a wet, sticky mess across his stomach and groin.

At the end of yet another night of broken sleep, largely spent
reliving memories of family and former friends, the vivid, erotic
dream of Ecthelion was simply the last straw. Forced from his bed by
the need to clean himself, he tidied his hair, splashed his face
with cold water and dressed, thankful the night was over.

Upon leaving his rooms, he was relieved to discover that the early
morning hour found most of Lindon still barely awake. Glorfindel
made his way down to the informal section of the Palace gardens, an
unexpected wilderness of roses, herbs and flowering shrubs. He
followed a small gravel path which led to a bench facing a tiny
fountain and sat, leaning back and closing his eyes. He felt
desperately alone.


```````````````````````````````

For the first few weeks after Lord Námo had sent him out into the
world from the coolness and silence of the Halls of Waiting, he had
been fortunate to find himself in the care of Círdan of the
Havens.

The ancient, quietly spoken Teleri, no stranger after so long to the
inexplicable ways of the Valar, had tried to help him to accustom
himself once more to the unfamiliar familiar, to the noise,
confusion, and haste of life on Arda.

He had been to the Havens twice before in his life - more correctly
his previous life - and found the contrast between known hallways
and unfamiliar landscaping similar to stepping into a dream world,
vaguely threatening, not quite as it should be, but lacking a
dream's promise of morning.

He learned early to close his eyes, shutting out the new strangeness
and drifting into a world of sounds. Sounds were safe. Seabirds
called as they ever had, the water lapped at the pilings of the
pier; he could almost believe he had never left.

How he had come to the Havens -- how, in fact, he had returned to
Middle-earth -- was a thing known but unclear to him. Known, as is
the fact of one's birth, though to claim actual memory would be
an exaggeration. He was simply here, almost as he had been before.

His first clear memory of this new life was waking in a boat and
hearing the sounds of the sea around him. There was no fear, no
confusion. He knew, as though he had been told, that all he had to
do was be still and wait.

Presently he had heard the sound of oars and could make out soft
voices. Strong, certain hands had reached for him, drawn him up into
another boat, and still in a state somewhere closer to reverie than
waking, he had been taken to shore.

The small gray boat that had borne him to within sight of the
Seaward Watch was left to either sink or return from whence it came.
One swift glance had been sufficient to tell those who approached it
the story of its origins, somewhere beyond the circle of the world.


``````````````````````````````````````````
He had slept for two days, and when he woke it was to a sense of
having waded through mist - where he had been, how he had arrived
here, were left behind him in the grayness.

Círdan seemed surprised to discover that he knew his name, his
former city - he needed no one to tell him the Hidden City no longer
stood - even the tale of the Balrog and his fall into darkness.

He had spent his time at the Havens resting, for he tired easily,
and learning a little of the new and confusing order of things that
had sprung up in his absence.

He had been there for a little over three weeks, growing stronger,
starting to feel more at ease with his surroundings, when one
afternoon Círdan came and sought him out where he sat in the sun
looking out to sea.

The silver haired, lightly bearded Elf took a seat beside him and
for a few minutes they sat in companionable silence, Glorfindel
shooting glances at the other from the corner of his eye. He had
always wondered how it was that this one Elf had a beard, for all
the world like a Man, but would never have dared to ask.

"I received a letter this morning," Círdan said, breaking the
silence between them. "It was from Gil-galad himself."

Glorfindel had already been told that Gil-galad, the son of a
Sindarin maid and of Orodreth, brother to Finrod, was now the High
King. This meant that the last clear heir to the line of the High
Kings of the Noldor on Middle-earth was, in fact, half Sindar. He
thought this rather summed up the whole distorted picture he was
busy trying to accustom himself to.

Belatedly Glorfindel focused his attention on Círdan, who was
waiting for a response from him. "Is there a problem of some
kind?" he asked, a sudden sense of unease touching him.

"That would depend on how you choose to look at it," Círdan replied
evenly. "Gil-galad has decided that he wants you at court by the
end of the week."

Glorfindel fought down a rising tide of panic.

"But it's far too soon," he exclaimed. "I need more time. There will
be so many people - everything is so different - "his voice trailed
off as he looked at Círdan in dismay.

Círdan, who had not heard his guest speak with so much eloquence
or animation since his arrival, sighed softly to himself. He had
rather expected this.

"I think that in this, the King is probably right," he said,keeping
his voice level and reassuring. "Your future home is there, not
here. You cannot stay hidden from the world for much longer. The
Valar had a purpose in sending you back, and it was hardly so that
you could hide yourself away here. You need to start meeting people -
"

"I meet people regularly in your guesthouse," Glorfindel argued, an
edge of desperation to his voice. "There are people coming and
going there all the time."

"Yes, quite true," Círdan agreed mildly. "And they are all in the
process of leaving Middle-earth behind forever. The affairs of
those who remain here are no longer their main interest. That is why
they leave you in peace. In the beginning you needed this solitude,
but now the time has come for you to move on."


``````````````````````````````````

His arrival in Lindon had turned out to be less taxing and official
than might have been expected. The King was absent on some business
of his own, and the formal reception that might have greeted
Glorfindel had been postponed.

Lost and isolated, left to settle in as best he could, Glorfindel
found himself forcibly confronted with the fact that he was, to all
intents and purposes, alone in the world. His former friends and
family were all either dead or over the sea in Valinor, and no
familiar face remained to smooth his adjustment to the confusing new
realities of Second Age Lindon.

For most Elves this sense of loss and unfamiliarity would have been
sad and unsettling, even when weighed against the joy of such a
unique second chance at life. For Glorfindel, however, making new
friends, fitting into a new society, was, as Círdan had realized,
the stuff of nightmares.

The prospect of receptions, formal dinners, endless numbers of new
faces, far from offering a promise of new friends and adventure
threatened to completely overwhelm him.

Those clamoring to make the acquaintance of the mighty Noldorin war
leader, Balrog slayer, and hero of song and legend would have been
startled to learn that the tall, blonde, and stunningly good-looking
Elf had one deeply rooted, socially overwhelming disability. He was
and always had been intensely and painfully shies, causing him to
regard the prospect of crowds of admiring strangers with a deep,
crawling horror.

In his youth, amongst family and his few close friends, he had been
known and loved as a generous, friendly Elf, kind-hearted to a
fault. In social situations, however, although he would have dearly
loved to appear outgoing and friendly, his brain seemed to simply
shut down. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his skin
started prickling, his throat seemed to close up, and he withdrew
into himself.

Because of his silences, and his brief and abrupt-sounding replies
to the simplest of approaches, he earned a completely undeserved
reputation for being cold and aloof which, when matched with his
unsurpassed good looks, was soon written off as arrogance.

Fewer people tried to include him in their activities, he received
less opportunity to try and interact, making it more and more
difficult for him to do so. Even amongst those Elves whom he had
known long enough to feel reasonably at ease with, he tended to be
unsure of himself, his deep lack of personal confidence causing him
to be hesitant and self-effacing.

Strangely he had no problems with authority figures or the
requirements of the environment of a full time warrior. He soon
realized there was a right way and a wrong way of doing things, and
not too much thought or improvisation was needed to choose between
the two. Communication tended to be left at a minimum, and clearly
defined actions were the primary requirement.

Lacking the distractions that would have been expected in the life
of one both well born and physically attractive, Glorfindel
proceeded to carve a name for himself as a fighter of huge
commitment and ability.

The pattern was set that might have continued for the rest of his
life, leaving him highly respected and admired, although achingly
alone, when fate stepped in and opportunity was placed firmly in his
path.


`````````````````````````````

Ecthelion was dark haired, gray eyed, witty, and gifted with immense
charm and popularity, and his friendship was courted assiduously by
both ellon and elleth alike. Normally when confronted with such an
extroverted personality, Glorfindel would not have managed to put
two words together.

As it happened, however, Ecthelion, an unlikely looking but
acknowledged master swordsman, had offered to spar with him, to help
him master certain finer points of swordplay. This was a type of
interaction Glorfindel could handle with comfort.

For his part, having made the right enquiries, Ecthelion decided
that the seduction of this beautiful, surprisingly inexperienced
golden haired Elf was worth more than a little effort.

He put to good use expertise gained in dealing with a bitterly shy
younger sister, handling the situation in such a way as to put
Glorfindel at ease. Thanks to his efforts, their relationship
developed swiftly from friendship to something with the potential to
be far more intimate.

The lack of competition created by Glorfindel's all but non-existent
social life had suggested to Ecthelion that it would take the
minimal of time and patience to achieve his goal. However, every
time it looked as though things might possibly progress from the
stage of hand holding and careful, non-invasive kisses, Glorfindel
always backed away.

Unknown to Ecthelion, the golden haired Elf was wrestling with a
familiar inner voice, one which had spent most of his life pointing
out his many shortcomings to him.

This voice was now asking him disparagingly why he was so set on
making a fool of himself with someone as far out of his league as
Ecthelion. With chilling logic it reminded him that, when confronted
with his complete lack of experience, Ecthelion was likely to lose
all interest in him, not just as a prospective lover but also as a
friend.

The same voice also reminded him, with brutal clarity, of all the
reasons for avoiding an act that would require a fair degree of
nudity, expressing a less than glowing opinion of the desirability
of his unclad body.

A critical observation before the mirror in his bedroom confirmed
all his worst fears. The proportions, he felt, were probably
acceptable, but his skin lacked the desired creamy white tones of
Elven song and poetry, tending more towards a pale honey.

Predictably, both he and the voice held serious doubts about the
size and shape of his penis. He had no idea what normal would
entail, but was fairly certain that it would have to be considerably
larger.

His nipples, on the other hand, to his deep embarrassment, certainly
did seem larger than normal. Whereas those of other ellyn appeared
to be an inconspicuous shade of beige, his were tinted a delicate
dusky rose.

Rather than try and explain any of this to Ecthelion, who was
kindness itself but not a very good listener, he decided that it
would be easier simply to continue to avoid intimacy, at least for
the foreseeable future.

He loved Ecthelion, achingly but silently, with all the misery,
uncertainties, and small ecstasies of first love. He longed to
submit fully to the caresses of the highly experienced older Elf,
dreaming nightly of their completion, but each opportunity that came
along saw his ultimate retreat behind stammered excuses and hurried
departures.

Elves are a patient people. Time is a commodity of which they have
an almost limitless supply. They can usually afford to wait, and
this is what Ecthelion settled down to do. He was not totally
certain what it was that kept Glorfindel from submitting to him, but
he kept trying, presenting an attitude of understanding and
acceptance in the face of continued refusal.

He also contrived to discreetly spend a fair amount of time with a
very pretty, to say nothing of extremely supple young elleth, who
was more than happy to go to quite uninhibited lengths to help keep
his frustrations at a manageable level.

This situation would probably not have been able to continue
indefinitely, but before the inevitable confrontation could occur,
Gondolin ran out of time. With betrayal came fire, Dragons, and the
Balrogs of Morgoth. Ecthelion of the Fountain Court died in defense
of that which had already been lost and Glorfindel the Golden fell,
entangled with flame and horror, willingly giving his life to
protect his princess and her seven year old son.


````````````````````````````````

Drawn back from his memories by a sensation of being watched,
Glorfindel opened his eyes and turned to see a tall, broad
shouldered Elf leaning against one of the trees, apparently hesitant
to disturb him.

He had a large built for one of their kind, a mane of heavy black
hair and very light blue eyes. His face was not beautiful in the
classic Elven mold, but was instead better described as arresting,
interesting. Unforgettable.

Glorfindel felt the familiar gray blanket settling over his brain at
the prospect of starting a conversation with a stranger. He cast
about frantically for something, anything to say to the elf that
stood there, radiating ease and self-assurance.

Then the stranger smiled, a wonderfully charismatic smile, lighting
both his face and the heart of whomever it was directed at, and
finding the right words no longer seemed all that important.

"I'm truly sorry I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived," the
stranger said in a rather deep, mellow voice. "I hope your
welcome wasn't too chaotic. I left instructions that you weren't to
be bothered more than necessary."

At Glorfindel's rather uncertain smile he frowned and then made a
half amused gesture of annoyance.

"I completely forgot my manners! I'm sorry, I didn't think to
introduce myself." He reached out his hand, offering the warriors'
grasp. "My name is Ereinion, mostly called Gil-galad. Welcome to
Lindon."

 Chapter 2

Gil-galad - known as Gil to the carefully chosen few he considered
friends - didn't allow Glorfindel to be shy. The King was a practical
Elf, possessing a quick, keen-sighted intelligence and a very sound
instinct for the strengths and weaknesses of those around him.

He realized almost at once that Glorfindel, far from being aloof and
unfriendly, was feeling lost and more than a little afraid and
overwhelmed. Furthermore, during a brief visit to the Havens,
carefully timed to coincide with Glorfindel's arrival at court, he had
had an extremely illuminating conversation with Círdan about Lindon's
latest celebrity.

This had helped him to gain a clearer understanding of the retiring
nature of the new arrival, whose insertion into Lindon society would,
in Cirdan's opinion, probably need a fair degree of intervention and
management.

Gil-galad fortunately liked managing things. It was an activity at
which he excelled. One of his basic tenets was that the less
complicated an action, the more likely it was to succeed. In this
case, to his mind, the simplest approach was to take Glorfindel under
his wing and into his innermost circle, personally organizing his
immersion into his new life.

Over the following weeks and under carefully controlled circumstances,
he introduced Glorfindel to a varied selection of people. The choices
seemed at first glance to be completely random, but in fact were the
result of Gil-galad's personal, and occasionally eccentric, assessment
of the person's sensitivity and conversational skills.

It would naturally have been impossible to exclude his wards, the
Mariner's sons, Elros and Elrond, from this list. Glorfindel's death
had come about as a direct result of his successful effort to save
their father and grandmother's lives. Furthermore, Glorfindel was
distantly related to the twins and had expressed an understandable
interest in meeting them.

The request was perfectly natural. Gil-galad, however, felt the
introductions would benefit from being preceded by a brief, discussion
between himself and the two young Half-elves.

------------

With this in mind, he sought the pair out in the suite of rooms they
currently shared while Elros still remained in Lindon. The elder twin
was in the process of completing his education before journeying to
Númenor, which would eventually become his permanent home.

The term `the twins' was a trifle misleading, Gil-galad thought, as he
surveyed them. They were alike, as often happens with brothers, but
far from identical. He felt, personally, that this might have been due
to direct intervention by the Valar, their way of making certain that
there would only ever be one Elrond Eärendilion.

Elros was never a problem. Had it been him alone, a quick word in
passing would have been all that might have been necessary. He sat,
straight and respectful, his long dark hair neatly braided, his mist
blue tunic and grey leggings impeccably neat, his expression eager but
polite.

His sibling sprawled on his stomach on a cushion-strewn divan, chin
propped on hands, the identical tunic and leggings clinging to him
like a second skin. His unbound hair was a wild, smoky mass,
spiderweb-fine, sinfully alluring, and his slanting grey eyes studied
Gil-galad with an expression of such intensity as to be more than a
little unnerving.

"So, what you are saying is, you want us to keep our distance from the
Balrog Slayer, in case we should happen to frighten him. Did I
understand that correctly, Sire?" Little glints of mischief
sparkled in the storm-coloured eyes.

Gil-galad took a very deep breath and released it slowly. Losing your
temper with Elrond was an instant admission of failure. At the least
sign of weakness he would pounce, gleeful and heedless as a kitten,
inflicting damage with surgical precision.

"Firstly," he said, very calmly, "I know it is in common use at the
moment, but should I hear the term `Balrog Slayer' from either of you
again, I'll give you cause to regret it. It belittles an act of
ultimate courage, without which your father would have died at the age
of seven, and you two would never have been born."

Elrond nodded gravely. "That was remiss of me, Sire. I take your
point. Secondly?"

Gil-galad eyed him suspiciously, but his face was smooth, displaying
nothing more than the correct degree of polite interest. Elros, on the
other hand, was positively cringing, usually a reliable pointer to his
brother's intent.

The life of trauma and horror to which they had been exposed since
they were toddlers had affected them differently, defining their
separateness even more clearly than their appearance did.

Elrond presented an edgy, arrogant self assurance, a scalpel-sharp
tongue, and gave no ounce of respect unearned. Elros manifested a
calm, helpful appearance, and spent a fair amount of his time
appeasing those his brother had managed, with a few well chosen words,
to outrage.

"Secondly," Gil-galad continued, "To put it simply, Glorfindel died in
the destruction of Gondolin. He has been returned, not reborn but
returned, memories intact, to what is for all intents and purposes a
different world. He is naturally disoriented and unsure of himself. I
expect you to take this into account and treat him with courtesy and
consideration."

Elrond scratched an elegant though slightly rounded ear thoughtfully.
"Yes," he agreed flatly. "It is a disorienting experience to have your
life change in a flash of fire and violence. One would expect
understanding and consideration to be the response to this, would one
not?"

Gil-galad caught and held his bland stare. The twins' lives had
changed through fire and violence. They had heard those around them
dying in fear and pain and seen their mother throw herself into the
sea, the accursed jewel around her neck, choosing her death before it
could be chosen for her. At the time understanding and consideration
had been in short supply.

Remembering this, he swallowed back the angry response sitting on the
edge of his tongue. However, he still held Elrond's gaze, waiting
until the Half-elf remembered whom it was he attempted to defy and
finally lowered his sea-grey eyes. Gil-galad nodded slightly, whether
to Elrond or to himself he was personally uncertain.

"Finally," he said, "I want you to regard this point as an instruction
not a request. You will leash your tongues, you will swallow your
wicked wit - both of you, it is not always just Elrond - and you will
make Glorfindel feel comfortable and at home, no matter what the
temptation."

He rose and looked from one to the other, and then continued, with the
unmistakable undertone of a growl to his voice.

"Should you see fit to disregard my wishes, we will be having another
conversation, and it will be considerably less pleasant than this one.
Are there any questions?"

Elrond opened his mouth, caught his brother's eye, and closed it
again. Elros stood, gesturing his twin to rise as well out of respect
to the King, and achieved what no one else could have as Elrond rose
gracefully and stood, head slightly bowed, the picture of decorum and
respect. Gil-galad felt an almost irresistible temptation to smack
him.

"We understand your concerns," Elros said quietly. "I assure you, we
will both go out of our way to make Lord Glorfindel feel as
comfortable and welcomed as possible. Won't we, Elrond?" He
shot his brother a long warning look under his lashes. Elrond offered
his infinitely charming smile and nodded agreement.

"Absolutely. Your wish is our desire, Your Grace."

Gil-galad left while he could still hold his tongue. However, halfway
down the hallway, and not for the first time after a run-in with
Elrond, he found his lips twitching with barely suppressed laughter.

------------

Gil-galad was a practical Elf, and in Glorfindel's case the list of
the purely practical ways in which he could be helped to settle in
were numerous indeed.

Since Lord Námo had sent his former guest back out into the world as
naked as the day he had been first born, Gil-galad immediately set
about supplying his latest dependant with new clothes, personal
effects, armor and a very good horse, all out of his own pocket.

They tested the horse's mettle with a series of hard-ridden excursions
to see the surrounding countryside, in company with the twins and a
small guard.

Elrond's behavior was impeccable. He even went so far as to appoint
himself Glorfindel's informal guide, helpfully pointing out places of
interest and being quick to furnish answers to any questions that
arose, though Gil-galad noticed with amusement that Elros kept a close
eye on his brother at all times.

Glorfindel enjoyed these outings. He liked being on horseback, the
fresh air and physical activity agreed with him, although Gil-galad
had worried that he would be tired by it, and he was fascinated at the
pure scale of habitation in this, the largest and most secure of the
Elven realms.

He was, in fact, so interested in how this had all come about that the
King's next course of action was to acquire the services of a lore
master to join him in explaining recent historical, geographical, and
political changes.

It was a natural consequence of all the time they spent in each
other's company that they should start comparing their personal
preferences, searching for areas of mutual interest.

They were delighted to find they shared the same tastes in books -
preferring general entertainment, as opposed to heavier works of lore
and philosophy. They liked cats and horses, they were indifferent
dancers, and shared an unexpected liking for board games.

They were pleased to discover they had in common a great love for
music, despite having no personal ability, though the King did possess
a good, strong singing voice. They began attending small concerts and
musical evenings together, which they discussed afterwards in great
detail.

The court watched the progress of this joined-at-the-hip friendship
with a natural cynicism, which was kept carefully concealed as
Gil-galad's temper and his loyalty to his friends were held to be of
more or less equal measure.

The younger of the Peredhil twins, Elrond, was heard to pass a few
snide comments, though he was careful as to time and place, but he was
generally rumored to have a large, juvenile, and completely
unreciprocated crush on the King. His comments, therefore, were judged
to carry the sickly green hue of jealousy.

------------

The day arrived when Glorfindel started to feel restless, expressing a
desire to start getting himself back into shape. The King, who took
this as a sign that Glorfindel was starting to settle in, immediately
pronounced it an excellent idea, and offered to be his first sparring
partner in Lindon.

Being Gil-galad, what he actually said was, "I've never sparred with
some one who's managed to get close enough to a Balrog to get himself
killed before."

Had this or similar comments come from anyone else Glorfindel would
have had no idea how to respond, but he had learned early to be at
ease with Gil-galad's questionable sense of humour, so he accepted the
invitation with laughter.

He found himself laughing a surprising amount of the time. Gil-galad,
although Glorfindel had no way of knowing it, gave quite a lot of
thought to finding ways to get him to laugh, for the pure pleasure of
watching the mirth light up that lovely though often over-serious
face.

They chose as their venue one of the small outdoor enclosures, and
picked the hour when most thoughts were turning to the midday meal, in
the hopes of getting a little privacy.

Upon their arrival they spent a little time examining Glorfindel's new
sword, paid for out of the treasury this time, not Gil-galad's pocket,
and, pronouncing it sound, prepared to get on with the business at
hand

At any rate Gil-galad, who had never had a problem taking his clothes
off, got on with it. Glorfindel stood in an agony of shyness, fiddling
with the buttons of his jerkin without going so far as to actually
undo any. Gil-galad, already stripped down to almost indecently tight
leggings, frowned at him and said,

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't fight like that. Get your shirt off;
it's hot as Mordor today. Do you think I'm going to run screaming at
the sight of a male nipple?"

Glorfindel was forced to laugh and, turning away, started to undress.
He glanced back to see the King standing openly watching him and
blushing furiously, was stung into saying,

"If you don't stop staring at me it stays on. I start feeling stupid
and ugly when people stare at me."

Gil-galad moved forward, laughing.

"Nonsense, come on, get this off and let's get on with it," he said,
and reached out to help Glorfindel off with his undershirt, pulling it
over the golden head in one smooth movement.

Stepping back, still chuckling, with the shirt in his hand, he took in
the sight before him and his breath caught in his throat. Glorfindel,
bright gold hair braided back neatly, stood facing him, a light blush
staining his cheeks and an uncertain smile on his soft lips, clad now
only in a pair of form fitting, black leggings.

Gil-galad looked at the perfectly sculpted body with the glowing,
satin smooth skin and the delicate, rose tinted nipples, and the
laughter died to silence, though the smile stayed in his eyes.

"Not stupid, "he said at last. "And quite literally the furthest thing
from ugly that I have ever seen."

They stood, their eyes locked, the world falling away into stillness,
leaving both of them for the moment completely unaware of their
surroundings. Then there were voices and Faeleron with two friends
arrived, and the moment passed and they set to sparring, loudly
encouraged by their impromptu audience.

They were evenly matched in speed and experience, save that the King
had never been killed by a Balrog, nor had he ever been a guest of
Lord Námo.

Chapter 3

Elrond, the image of helpfulness, had spent hours tracking down a book
on the expansion of the coastal communities in response to a query
from Glorfindel on the subject. He wandered, uninvited, into
Glorfindel's rooms,to find him trying to decide what to wear to
dinner that night.

What he was trying to achieve  wasn't too clear, though it seemed to
have something to do with wearing an outfit Gil-galad would think
looked attractive. To this end he had taken every possibly suitable
item of clothing and simply dumped it on the bed, and was now standing
staring in a bemused manner at the pile.

Elrond put the book down and joined him in surveying the mess.

"What were you looking for?" he asked at last, lifting and then with a
pained expression dropping a pale brown tunic.

"I was trying to decide what to wear tonight," Glorfindel admitted. He
pushed ineffectually at the pile of clothing. "I never seem to get it
right somehow."

Elrond was still looking at the brown tunic. "You won't if this is the
sort of thing you have to choose from," he remarked. "Where did you
get this?"

"When I arrived, Círdan organized clothing for me. That was one of
the tunics he provided."

"Círdan...!"

"I was sent back with nothing, including clothing. The intention
wasn't to make a fashion statement, it was simply to cover me,"
Glorfindel offered.

He had gotten over his initial uncertainty with Elrond. Almost
everyone was wary of the young Half-elf's tongue, though Glorfindel
knew a facade when he saw it. He was quite curious as to what lay
behind this one.

He also had an idea that Elrond had been warned by Gil-galad, as he
was unfailingly polite and helpful, even when it was quite obvious
that he was gritting his teeth from the effort.

Glorfindel had started taking Gil-galad's intervention in a whole
range of areas for granted, from recommendations of books to read all
the way through to the once-dreaded experience of social mingling. 

The King made a point of staying within earshot until he was sure
Glorfindel had started to relax and take part in the conversation,
which was something the blonde Elf found to be immensely liberating.

He knew that, should there be one of those awkward pauses in the
conversation, should a question be asked that he felt inadequate to
answer, it would be dealt with, smoothly and effectively, by someone
who was totally at ease in any situation and appeared never to be at a
loss for words.

Almost without realizing it, he started to take note of how Gil-galad
did this, and slowly began to put these lessons into practice in a
small way himself. This nurturing of a feeling of security, of being
in a safe environment socially, was something he could not remember
ever having experienced before.

The habits of a lifetime are not easily shed, but Glorfindel's shyness
was not inborn but was a thing learnt in childhood. As with all
habits, with patient support and guidance, it could, to a fair degree,
be unlearnt

Glorfindel was born the only son of the head of a wealthy and noble
house, with connections to royalty. He was a beautiful, well-behaved
child, although diffident and reserved towards strangers.

His father observed his lack of confidence with deeply felt, ineptly
expressed concern. This took the form of regular lectures on the need
to be more outgoing, more assertive, to avoid gauche behavior that
would open him to mockery and ridicule.

His mother, in an attempt to aid her son, had supported him behind his
father's back with soft words of sympathy and support, which had the
effect of reaffirming his fears.

A phase that could easily have been overcome with a little
understanding and guidance was slowly reinforced into a deep-seated
fear of phobic proportions.

Elrond was poking cautiously through the heap of clothing, a look of
disbelief on his face as he examined first one item and then another.

"You said dinner," he queried eventually. "I wasn't aware there was
anything special planned for tonight?"

"No, not special, no -" Glorfindel found himself stammering, and
automatically coloured. He took a deep breath and tried again. "It's
nothing special, just the King, Dalbros, and Erestor. It's just
that I seem to wear the same clothes all the time and wanted a change,
but I'm not much good at this sort of thing."

As he said this, he spared a glance for Elrond, stylish in soft rose
and maroon. The dark hair had escaped its ties, as usual, and he had
pushed his sleeves up almost to the elbows, and yet he still managed
to look the picture of taste and style. The model of Elven elegance
was frowning slightly.

"Dalbros the librarian I know of course, but Erestor? I don't think."

"The new assistant military advisor. Black hair, amber eyes, very
intelligent, interesting to talk to."

Elrond bit back the clever little response that danced on his tongue,
knowing it would be misconstrued, and chose instead to nod and murmur,
"Ah, of course. I remember him now. Maedhros used to call him the
Raven - for his hair. Very original."  

He had started off minding his manners around the new arrival at
Elros' insistence but soon, to his surprise, found himself doing
so as a matter of choice. In fact, he found himself actively seeking
Glorfindel out, sensing the blonde's loneliness.

The contrast between heroic stature and extreme good looks on the one
hand and shy, uncertain sweetness on the other were touching. They
spoke to the insecurity and feelings of exclusion within Elrond
himself, which he went to extreme measures to conceal, both from
others and increasingly from himself.

He did, however, find himself wondering with rather cynical amusement
what Glorfindel's response was going to be when Gil-galad finally made
his move. The King had gone from feeling responsible for the returned
warrior's comfort and welfare to a condition where every third phrase
out of his mouth seemed to be prefaced with "Glorfindel says.." or
"Glorfindel wants."

Elrond, who had been trying half-heartedly to catch the eye of the
tall, dark haired monarch himself, wasn't sure whether to be upset or
amused, finally settling, instead, to watch and learn. And maybe
gossip a little while he was about it, much to Elros' horror.

Elrond started sorting through the clothing with a bit more purpose,
accepting a few items, rejecting the majority until there were three
piles on the bed. He moved back to stand with Glorfindel who had been
watching him in confusion.

"The first pile," he said, pointing to a small mound consisting of a
scant few items, "are the clothes you will choose your outfit for
tonight from. These," he gestured to the second, slightly larger
collection, "are acceptable. Barely."

He leaned over and lifted the final pile of clothing and tipped it
dramatically onto the floor beside the bed.  He stood back and fixed
Glorfindel with a firm stare. "These go!"

"I can't just throw them away." Glorfindel exclaimed, horrified. "That
would be wrong, and ungrateful and wasteful and.."

"And then we will replace them with something more suitable," Elrond
continued, as though he had said nothing. "Something more in line
with your coloring and build."

Glorfindel's face lit for a moment at the thought of stylish, elegant
Elrond helping him choose clothing, and then reality intervened and he
shook his head.

"I can't do that," he said regretfully. Elrond frowned at him in
impatience.

"I promise you, neither Círdan nor Ereinion would even notice. Are
these the clothing choices of an Elf who notices fashion? Be sensible.
There's no need to throw them away, there are enough refugees
here who would be grateful for them. I can arrange to."

"I can't ask the King to give me money to buy more clothing just
because what I was originally given was not fashionable enough.  And I
have no resources myself," Glorfindel interrupted him, his face
deeply flushed with embarrassment.

Elrond opened then closed his mouth. Memories flashed through his mind
of himself and Elros, dependent for a large part of their lives on the
kindness of others, teaching each other to sew in an attempt to
maintain the few clothes they had.

Things were very different now. They each received an allowance from
the Treasury. Much of that which had been taken the night their mother
died and their world changed had been returned to them. The days of
want were now long past, but he knew very well how it was to lack the
means to replace the smallest item of clothing.

He looked at the miserably uncomfortable Elf before him. Glorfindel
had never known a day of want before now, had no experience to fall
back on, and was both too shy and too proud to ask for help. Something
small shifted inside Elrond, something that was the beginnings of
responsibility and compassion, the core of the Elf Lord he would one
day become.

"You don't have to ask Ereinion," he said in what he hoped for
Glorfindel's sake was a suitably casual tone. He found he had no
urge to embarrass him further. "I'll see to it. I think I'll rather
enjoy this actually. Like having a life-size doll to play with."

"I can't possibly allow you to spend that amount of money on me,"
Glorfindel began, but Elrond shook his head firmly before flashing him
a rare, genuinely sweet smile.

"Look on it as the beginnings of restitution," he suggested quite
gently. "After all, my brother and I do rather owe you for the
Balrog."

------------

After Elrond left, Glorfindel picked up the clothing from the floor
and folded it carefully before putting it away, after a little
thought, into the chest where the extra blankets and such were kept.
The `acceptable' clothing he put away in their usual place and then he
turned his attention to the available choices for the evening.

There was a deep blue robe that he felt too conspicuous in, though it
would have appealed to Elrond who had a fondness for peacock colours,
a pair of gray leggings, and a choice of tunics, one being of a red
that was closer to scarlet, and the other a soft forest green.

After some thought, feeling defeated through lack of experience, he
wore red because he had been told it suited him. He dressed his hair
casually, plaiting a few side braids and leaving the rest loose. It
hung in a heavy ripple of gold over his shoulders and down his back to
a spot somewhat below his waist.

Finally, trying not to think overmuch as to why he was going to so
much trouble for what was merely a simple dinner with friends, he made
his way to Gil-galad's private rooms. 

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````
He arrived on time, but upon entering discovered he was alone in the
little sitting room that the King used when entertaining informally.

This was a room Glorfindel liked and in which he felt at ease. There
were comfortable chairs, a divan covered with cushions, small tables
holding an assortment of Gil-galad's personal treasures.

One table, set slightly apart and under the window and flanked by two
chairs, held a crystal chess set with a half-finished game - the twins
were dedicated, aggressive players.

There was a thick, warm rug on the floor in front of the fireplace. It
was the perfect spot to sit and have a late night cup of wine and one
of those long, involved conversations that Gil-galad so loved, which
took the world apart and rebuilt it again.

The room was decorated throughout in an assortment of warm, vibrant
colors, which should have fought one another to a standstill but
somehow blended into a harmonious whole.

The only new addition to be seen was a small table over in the corner
, attractively prepared, and decorated with a small floral centerpiece
and a pair of good candles. Places were set for two diners.

The inner door clicked shut as Gil-galad came through to join him. He
was dressed simply in dark blue leggings and tunic, his hair held back
with intricate mithril clasps. An alert observer might have noticed a
brief hesitation before he came forward with his usual heart-stopping
smile.

"Thought I heard some one," he said, going to the fire and adding a
totally unnecessary log.

"I seem to be the first," Glorfindel volunteered from his place by the
chess set, where he was busy scrutinizing the game.

"Oh, no, no, it's just us tonight," Gil-galad told him, still very
busy with the fire. "Erestor pleaded pressure of work and Dalbros
had forgotten a family commitment."

Before he would have to answer the query in Glorfindel's eyes, which
would probably have required huge economy with the truth, there was a
tap at the door.  A small delegation from the kitchen entered, bearing
an assortment of foods in covered dishes, which they proceeded to lay
out on the server set next to the table.

"I thought, as it was just the two of us, that it would be pleasant to
have something we could see to ourselves," Gil-galad ventured.  "Keep
it casual, no need for servants."

Glorfindel, as he had hoped, nodded eagerly. The blonde was never
relaxed in the more formal environment created by servants, and would
be more than happy for it to be just the two of them.

Chapter 4

The meal was delightful. There was a starter of sweet melon and ham,
followed by a fish platter consisting of a variety of seafood on a bed
of wild rice, a small salad, and a delicately flavored pink sauce.
This was followed by a crisp and rather filling apple dessert topped
with custard, a favorite of the King's.

To accompany all this there were several bottles of a light though
potent sparkling wine brought from the far south at considerable
expense.

The conversation was casual and confined to generalities:  the King's
meeting with a trade delegation from the southeast, Glorfindel's
opinion concerning Elros' new puppy, the likelihood of Dalbros' wife
being pregnant - again.

Glorfindel, to his continued amazement, had never experienced any
difficulty in talking to Gil-galad. Tonight, however, the King seemed
distracted, and after a while Glorfindel turned his attention instead
to enjoying the meal.

After they had eaten and carefully stacked the dirty dishes on the
small serving table, Gil-galad proceeded to wander around the room,
wine cup in hand, snuffing out candles as he went, eventually leaving
the room lit by one small lamp and the firelight. Settling himself
down on the rug, he said over his shoulder,

"Bring that last bottle over here with you. Now that it's open, we
might as well finish it."

Glorfindel picked it up with a smile. "Can't understand how you could
open it by accident," he said in amusement. "You leave us no choice
now; we'll just have to drink it. I hadn't planned on another half
bottle tonight."

Gil-galad pulled a slight face and shrugged. 

"Can't imagine how I happened to do that, uncorking it when we hadn't
even finished the other one," he said evenly. "Still, it would be a
pity to waste it. It's very good. You get a lovely warm feeling from
all those little bubbles, have you noticed?"

Glorfindel, who was usually a two- to three-cup Elf, and was currently
at the top of that self-imposed limit, had noticed. Very warm. In
fact, his skin seemed to be starting to tingle.

He brought the bottle over, handed it to Gil-galad and settled down
opposite him on the rug before the fire, leaning his head back against
one of the chairs, and relaxed.

                                                       ----------

An hour after dinner found Gil-galad and Glorfindel stretched out on
the floor, the chessboard between them, engaging in a not very serious
and rather haphazard game of something approaching chess, played to a
raucously expanding set of rules.

Gil-galad, lying propped up on an elbow, had just taken another of
Glorfindel's pieces by an act of blatant dishonesty. He was busy
palming it while attempting to justify his actions, his blue eyes
sparkling and alive with mischief.

Glorfindel, laughing, and made more than a little uninhibited by the
wine, reached out and grabbed at the King's wrist in an attempt to
wrest the little crystal figurine from his grasp.

"You had no justification for doing that, Sire..." he began, tugging
ineffectually at the large, strong hand into which the rook had
vanished.

"'Gil'!" insisted his opponent laughingly, keeping a tight hold on the
piece.  "I have told you more times than I can remember, when we are
alone I want you to call me Gil. It's hardly a difficult name. Come
on, let me hear you say it first and then we shall see."

Glorfindel raised his eyes from the strong wrist he was gripping and
gave Gil-galad a mock scowl. "Whatever name I call you makes no
difference, GIL, you still had absolutely no right to do that," he
said, before bursting into laughter.

Gil-galad looked up at him. Glorfindel's golden hair gleamed in the
firelight. His beautiful face, alight with laughter, was slightly
flushed, both from wine and from the fire's warmth, and his soft lips
were moist, irresistible.

Dropping the gaming piece and moving upright with surprising grace, he
drew Glorfindel into his arms. All laughter gone, his face utterly
serious, Gil-galad kissed him, very softly and very carefully on the
lips.

For the space of some seven heartbeats they were both motionless, then
they drew back to look at one another. Glorfindel's eyes were wide,
wondering. He moved his hand up, touching his fingers almost
unconsciously to his lips, never taking his eyes off the King. 

Gil-galad took Glorfindel's face gently between his hands, tilting it
up to his while lightly stroking his thumbs back and forth across the
high cheekbones and watching him intently.

He leaned in slowly, keeping eye contact until finally their lips met.
His tongue snaked out and licked slowly, almost thoughtfully, across
Glorfindel's mouth, tracing first his top lip then, lingeringly, the
bottom one. Drawing back slightly he murmured,

"Part your lips, let me taste your mouth. Please!"

``````````

Early evening had found Elrond out for a walk in the palace gardens,
Elros' puppy, Laslech, leashed and firmly in tow.  The dog had been a
gift from a delegation of Men who had come to Lindon in the hope of
speaking with the future King of Númenor.  Elros had accepted her
with thanks. It would have been impolite to say he much preferred
cats.

Elrond had taken it upon himself to make sure the animal was properly
fed and exercised, making it clear that he did so in the interests of
a clean and controlled living environment.  He missed no opportunity
to remind Elros, and anyone else who would listen, of the sacrifice he
was making, both in time and patience.

In fact, Elrond adored the puppy, but he kept up the façade as he
could hardly admit to this. His entire image revolved around his
complete lack of sentiment or softness, and the term `dog lover'
hardly sat well with that. She was, however, his confidante, someone
he could hold onto in his many moments of insecurity.

They were passing the fountain with the ugly dolphin motif when he
spotted a vaguely familiar figure. He paused to look, attracted by the
Elf's appearance, and then after a moment's thought recalled a name
for the face - and an interesting snippet of information.

Laslech had found an intriguing place to sniff around and nose at and
seemed oblivious to the fact that her companion wanted to move on.

"Come along, Laslech," he said, giving the leash a quick tug. "Let's
go and have some fun."

His target was standing looking down into the fish pond, and he
glanced round, the gleaming fall of black hair swinging smoothly with
the movement, to see who approached.  He offered Elrond an enquiring
smile.

The Elf was a little under medium height and had the grace and balance
of a dancer. His hair fell straight and gleaming like black satin to
mid buttock, his exotically slanted eyes were deep amber, and he had
skin the colour and texture of thick cream.

"Erestor, isn't it?" Elrond inquired on reaching him. "I thought I
recognized you. I remember you as an occasional visitor to our camp
back when my brother and I were with Maedhros."

Any reminder of a connection to the Sons of Fëanor was usually
regarded as hugely embarrassing. Elrond both enjoyed and despised the
sidestepping or even outright denials this sort of statement would
normally induce, so he was quite impressed when the black-haired Elf
nodded at once without so much as blinking.

"Yes," Erestor answered. "We met on a few occasions when you and your
brother were much younger." He had a low, even voice, cool as
water, mellow as honey.

Laslech spotted the fish and began barking frantically, straining at
the leash in her efforts to get to the water. Elrond picked her up,
shushed her firmly, and tucked her under an arm, refusing to be made
uncomfortable by her behavior.

"My cousin has appointed you assistant military advisor, I believe,"
he said, displaying the sort of poise that denied the existence of an
over-excited young dog under his arm.

Erestor nodded. "Yes, I was very fortunate. I was hoping for some kind
of a clerical opening, and this was far more than I had expected."

"Clerical?" Elrond asked. "I thought I recalled intelligence as your
specialty?"

Erestor quirked a brow at the less than complimentary tone. "Well,
that perhaps overstates it, but I do have some experience in gathering
information," he conceded, "However, His Majesty felt my talents could
be used in a more conventional manner. We shall see if it works out or
not."

Elrond frowned to himself, estimating the time. "Being exceptionally
late for dinner won't endear you to him," he suggested. Erestor looked
at him enquiringly, and then his face cleared.

"Oh, the dinner invitation for this evening. No, it was cancelled,
otherwise you're quite right, I would be rather late. "

"Cancelled?" Elrond asked, glancing back over his shoulder to see what
had attracted Laslech's attention this time, and spotting the
unmistakable figure of Lord Círdan. 

"His Majesty had to attend an urgent meeting. He had no idea when it
would finish, so he thought it better to reschedule."

Elrond found he rather liked the black-haired Elf, enjoying the fact
that he had not attempted to hide the more inconvenient details of his
past. An incorrigible gossip, he opened his mouth to share the assumed
focus of the `meeting', and then a picture flashed into his
mind.

He saw Glorfindel and a bed full of clothing, saw the blonde trying to
decide what to wear out of this limited selection, blushing painfully
as he admitted to being penniless and dependant.

Elrond's definition of `family' tended to be vague, but he was
prepared to protect anyone who fell under that heading with his life.
Currently this select group consisted of Elros and to a lesser extent,
Laslech and Gil-galad. Somehow, in the space of an afternoon, it now
also encompassed the shy, quietly-spoken blonde, whom he owed for the
Balrog.  He did what up until then he had only ever done for Elros. He
lied.

"Yes," he said easily. "I suppose he would have had to reschedule. He
was complaining to me earlier about his life not being his own."

He put Laslech down again. "You'll have to excuse me," he added with
one of his more charming smiles. "I need to leave before Lord Círdan
spots me. Long story."

Erestor inclined his head slightly, then bent down and patted the pup.
"Of course," he said, shooting Elrond a considering look from amber
eyes. "I hope we meet again soon."

Elrond's brows shot up and he laughed. "This place is like a small
village. You'll be lucky to have a day go by without running into
me once you're settled."

Saying this, he turned and headed off quickly in the direction from
which he had come, Laslech trotting to keep up. Because he really did
prefer not to run into Círdan if he could help it - the ancient Elf
always had some question about his behavior, some comment about his
appearance - he went in through the nearest door and took a roundabout
route back to the private wing. On the way to his own chambers, he
passed the hallway that led to Gil-galad's rooms and flashed it a
curious though amused look.

"Wonder how that's working, girl?" he asked the dog. "We'll have to
see if we can get Glorfindel to kiss and tell, won't we?"

------------

Glorfindel could hear the blood humming in his ears. There was a
heightened tension spreading throughout his body, mostly concentrated
in his groin. There the sensation of throbbing heat was slowly making
itself the focal point of his world.

And Gil - no longer Gil-galad the King, just Gil - was kissing him as
he had never even dreamed of being kissed, slowly exploring his mouth,
tasting, savoring. The strong arms that held him had drawn him back
down onto the rug, the chess set having been firmly pushed to one
side.

Gil was leaning over him, stroking his hair and face as he kissed him,
while trailing light, caressing fingers down his neck, moving them in
tiny circles. The gentle touch moved steadily lower, finally coming to
rest on the top clasp of his tunic. Panting slightly, Gil eventually
released Glorfindel's mouth and drew back so that they could make eye
contact.

"I need to undress you," he said simply. "I need to touch you.
Please..." His gaze was intense, the blue eyes dark and cloudy.

Glorfindel lay staring up at him, remembering all those times with
Ecthelion, when this same request had been made. Somehow that all
seemed very far away, while Gil was close and warm. This time he
really didn't want to stop.

In a shaky voice, searching Gil's eyes, he asked,

"Why me?  You could have almost anyone you wanted, someone beautiful,
special...why would you want me?"

Gil quirked an eyebrow while running a less than steady finger along
the line of Glorfindel's jaw. Smiling, he shook his head and said in
amusement, 

"You simply have no idea, do you? I have no interest in anyone else.
Come, just your tunic, sweetheart. I won't ask you to do anything that
makes you uncomfortable, I promise, just please, please let me touch
you..."

As he spoke, he was stroking Glorfindel's chest and shoulders,
enforcing gentleness on hands that wanted to squeeze and grasp.
Glorfindel swallowed hard and closed his eyes, nodding.

Gil decided not to give him too much time to think about it. The tunic
was removed swiftly and efficiently, followed by the undershirt, Gil's
fingers proving to be remarkably agile despite their size. Before he
knew it, Glorfindel lay on the rug with air and firelight tracing
patterns on his naked skin and sun-bright hair. Gil removed his own
tunic, balling it up and tossing it across the room before taking a
moment to loosen his hair. He placed the mithril hair clasps beside
the chessboard and shook out his long black hair.

Glorfindel noticed the unexpected red lights in the thigh-length mane
and focused on this, trying to shut out the suddenly silent room.
Predictably, all the usual feelings of uncertainty and inadequacy were
rushing in to claim him, to take this night away from him as they had
all the others.

Gil, however, proved himself to be even quicker than fear and
self-doubt. Kneeling, he proceeded to run firm but gentle hands over
Glorfindel, his face serious, concentrated. Gil's fingers explored the
curves and hollows of the body lying still but uncertain under his
touch, tracing ribs, circling down lightly over the firm stomach,
following the line of the waist using a soft feathery touch that
raised gooseflesh.

Leaning closer, he ran his hands smoothly back up, and began to circle
Glorfindel's highly sensitive nipples with his fingertips before
rubbing his thumbs over them, gently but firmly, grazing very lightly
with his short nails. Almost as a reflex Glorfindel gasped, his eyes
closing abruptly, and Gil bent his head to take one hardening
temptation between his lips. He felt the moment of tension in the body
beneath his and then he drew the nub and surrounding flesh into his
mouth, caressing it with his tongue.

Glorfindel cried out sharply and reached for Gil, his arms going round
him. One hand found the back of his head, fingers sinking into the
thick, dark hair, pressing him closer as the blonde Elf writhed and
moaned softly. Gil licked and suckled each nipple in turn, whispering
broken words of praise and desire, then moved slowly down Glorfindel's
body, the sure touch of his hands and mouth making the blonde Elf
murmur incoherently and wrap his hands tighter in Gil's hair.

He pushed the band of Glorfindel's leggings down carefully, exploring
his navel thoroughly with his tongue, causing his inexperienced
partner to shiver and whimper softly. A series of lingering kisses,
with a pause to lavish more attention on the intensely responsive
nipples, was followed by Gil nipping a trail of fire up Glorfindel's
neck and reclaiming his mouth.

This kiss, unlike the others, was almost rough, his need and
insistence showing. It left Glorfindel almost inarticulate with desire
as he attempted to deal with the rush of new sensations that were
overwhelming his body. When the kiss ended, Gil drew back from him and
moved to sit up. Glorfindel groaned aloud and tried to hold on to him,
but Gil disengaged himself easily.  He took Glorfindel's hands in his
own and said softly,

"I need you to look at me, sweetheart. Are you sure you want this to
go further? You need to be certain."

The world started crowding back in on Glorfindel, and in a dazed sort
of fashion he began to remember why he should be saying no. Struggling
to give some order to his thoughts, he tried to explain - no easy task
while lying half-naked on the rug next to the fire with Gil's hands
holding his, stroking his fingers firmly.

"I know I'm going to sound stupid, but I have never - well - never
done this before. I know I don't have the experience to satisfy you. I
have no idea what you need from me - I am just afraid I will
disappoint you," he said, finishing in a rush of words and turning his
head away, his face burning.

"Never before, sweetheart? Truly?" Gil asked in a quiet, serious
voice. At Glorfindel's uncertain nod, he smiled and raised one of the
hands he was caressing to his lips.

"None of us are born experienced," he said gently. "I can think of
nothing more wonderful than to be your first lover. Will you have
me?"

Glorfindel lay looking up at him searchingly, and Gil waited quietly,
perfectly still save for the movement of his fingers. Finally, slowly,
the blonde Elf nodded. Gil leaned down, smiling, to take him into his
arms, and for long minutes simply held him close, rubbing his cheek
against the fair hair.

After a while he began to stroke a hand slowly up and down
Glorfindel's back, eventually reaching lower, to unfasten the blonde's
leggings. He removed them and the loincloth, carefully. Only then did
he take off the last of his own clothes. 

Turning back from throwing his garments off into the dimness, he heard
Glorfindel, a trace of color even now staining his cheeks, whisper
softly,  "You're - beautiful!" He was looking up, eyes wide, at the
strong, well-proportioned body kneeling above him.

"Do you think I am?" Gil asked him, smiling. At Glorfindel's nod he
leaned over and, lips close to his ear, said, "Would you like to
explore what you see? It would give me so much pleasure if you wanted
to touch me."

He lay down, rolled onto his back, and folded his arms behind his
head. Giving Glorfindel an encouraging grin, he assumed an air of
waiting.

Glorfindel started slowly, uncertainly, caressing the firmly muscled
stomach and chest, finally daring to lick the small, dark nipples,
causing Gil to groan with need. He progressed to sucking the hardened
points and stroking them with his tongue, shy uncertainty melting away
in the face of Gil's obvious pleasure.

Presently he kissed his way lingeringly down to Gil's waist, from
where he was  encouraged to venture lower. He found himself
tentatively touching Gil's erect penis, an action full of new
uncertainties but, remembering every conversation on the subject that
he had ever overheard, he applied his lips and the tip of his tongue
to the swollen head and experimentally sucked.

Gil allowed himself a few selfish, mind-numbing minutes of pure
pleasure, and then tugged at Glorfindel's hair - hard - to make
him stop.

"You have no idea what you are doing to me, do you?" Gil managed to
get out on a half laugh. "You are driving me insane... come here
and find out what it feels like!"

Gil pulled him up into a quick, close embrace, kissing him hard.
Glorfindel barely had a chance to return the kiss before he found
himself lying flat on his back again.

Gil ran hands and tongue down his body in a straight, unerring line
and then, for Glorfindel, time all but stood still. The room
retreated, leaving him aware of nothing but the rug under his naked
back, the dark hair falling across his stomach and hips, and Gil's
mouth doing impossible things. For a few minutes there was nothing but
the mouth, his cock, darkness, and sparks behind his closed eyelids.
He almost forgot to breathe.

Gil released him despite his almost frantic protests and propped
himself up on his elbows, shaking his hair out of his face. He looked
at Glorfindel, lying on his back, his arms flung out, fingers gripping
the rug, his hair a pool of gold. The fire lit his body, showing the
taut, ruby nipples and the darkening kiss marks.

"Do we finish this?" Gil asked him softly. Glorfindel was gasping for
breath, beyond words. All he could manage was a nod and an incoherent
murmur.

"I'm going to assume that meant 'yes' then," Gil said with a
breathless laugh and sat up.

Glorfindel had a brief impression of movement, of Gil stretching out
and scratching about amongst the wood beside the fire, then he was
once more being held and kissed and then nothing mattered except the
strong body moving urgently against his, and need that was slowly
becoming his whole existence.

Chapter Five

The Palace at Lindon was in reality a series of buildings serving a
variety of purposes: part administrative center, part military
headquarters, and part royal dwelling place. It contained all the
offices of government, an armory, comprehensive kitchen facilities, a
healing center, and of course, extensive stables.

It also offered accommodation, at a nominal rental, for those
employees who wished to take advantage of this convenience. Those who
did so received two basic meals a day, laundry services, and access to
the communal bathing facilities.

The sprawling complex was the first of its kind, bearing no
resemblance to the walled, defensible strongholds of former Noldorin
Kings. It was a new approach, a response to the dawning of a new Age.

Outside the palace, the town around it was growing and sprawling
outwards. Settlements had sprung up in all directions, catering to
many different groups and cultures. found it reassuring to live under
the protection of the first High King ever to hold out the promise of
some form of peace and security.

----------

Inside the Palace, in the living quarters set aside for mid-level
administrative personnel, Erestor stood in the middle of his small,
plain room and considered his surroundings.

He had unpacked his sparse belongings within an hour of arriving, put
them neatly away and thought no more of it, but he was now struck by
how bare and unwelcoming the room appeared.  There was no warmth, none
of the little extras that suggested home. It appeared untouched,
unoccupied.

Until now, this had been of no concern to him. The room had simply
been a convenient place to read and rest. Now he looked at it through
other eyes and found it to be wanting in the extreme. No one would
bring a guest here for any reason other than brief, meaningless
physical satisfaction.

Having assessed the room as a problem to be solved, he took a stick of
graphite and one of the parchment discards he used for notes and
proceeded to make a list of items that would address the solution. It
was a methodical and comprehensive list, reflecting the sharp,
observant mind that had led to his being employed in a potentially
sensitive position despite his less than pristine past.

The idea of perhaps being able to invite someone back to his room for
a cup of wine and a little conversation, had not fully occurred to him
until earlier that evening, and then only vaguely. The thought that
the guest might be the Half-elven Princeling he had encountered in the
garden was something he firmly dismissed as unlikely in the extreme at
this point in his career.

However, stranger things had happened in his life. There was also
nothing wrong with being prepared. Anyway, he reasoned, a little
colour and texture would be pleasant for a change.

Decisions made, list written, he fastened his hair back and then,
putting out the lamp - oil was far from inexpensive in this
fast-growing capital, he had discovered - he left the room. Once
outside, he resumed his search for the most conducive spot to perform
the exercise routine with which he had, for years, been in the habit
of beginning and ending his day.

----------------

Meanwhile, lying on the rug in front of the fire, decision made, Gil
found that he was in no hurry to proceed. Instead, he was taking his
time and simply enjoying the closeness, the escalating heat between
them, the shared caresses.

Glorfindel, to his delight, was no longer a tentative partner. Lips
explored, sampled, hands tangled in hair, and all the while their
bodies twisted and writhed almost as one.

Finally, when the moment felt right, Gil guided the blonde Elf onto
his side, drawing one of Glorfindel's legs half over his hip, and
moved a hand smoothly down Glorfindel's body, caressing his thigh, his
firm behind, before using one finger to circle his lover's most
intimate opening, lightly at first, then harder, deeper.

Glorfindel was vaguely aware of slickness - oil? Where would Gil have
found oil? he wondered vaguely. Then the finger thrust inside, and
even before his own cry, he heard Gil give a low moan of desire. The
finger penetrated him, pushing against firm resistance. There was no
real pain, just a feeling of strangeness, which was not exactly
unwelcome, just - different.

After a few minutes, Gil carefully added more oil. Suddenly, despite a
moan of protest from Glorfindel, one probing finger became two. The
kissing and caressing continued, as Gil's mouth roved from lips to
nipples to throat, licking and sucking, balancing possible discomfort
with proven pleasure.

The slick fingers meanwhile stretched, loosened, seeking and finally
finding their sensitive target. Sudden pressure caused Glorfindel to
swear graphically while instinctively jerking sharply back against the
source of the unbelievable jolt of pleasure.

Gil drew him into a fierce, one-armed embrace, reclaiming his mouth in
a passionate kiss, while he proceeded to thrust his fingers in and out
of the blonde, striking the same spot each time and causing him to
moan and writhe and attempt to cry out against the covering mouth.

Finally, ignoring some very vocal protests, he released Glorfindel and
reached again for the little bottle of oil he had secreted earlier,
optimistically, by the fire. Kneeling, he poured a generous amount
into his hand and started smoothing it over his aching shaft,
shuddering at his own touch.

After a moment, he became aware that Glorfindel was watching him with
a less than encouraging expression in his eyes.

Gil paused.

"Is everything all right?" he asked in sudden trepidation.

"I can't!" Glorfindel said flatly.

A little voice in the back of Gil-galad's head screamed, "You
idiot! Too fast, you moved too fast!" but he managed to keep his
expression reassuring and his voice calm though a bit breathless as he
asked,

"What's wrong? What did I do?"

"No, no you didn't do anything wrong, you're wonderful, being with you
feels like all I ever wanted. I just feel so.so." he broke off,
dropping his embarrassed gaze and blushing furiously. Gil knelt
looking at him quizzically, an oil-covered hand resting, all but
forgotten, on his penis.

"Well, what then, sweetheart?" he asked.

Glorfindel refused to look at him. "I`m just still not completely sure
how it all works," he muttered, shaking his hair over his face like a
shield.

In spite of frantic efforts to stop himself, Gil burst out laughing.
Gathering Glorfindel into his arms, he wrapped himself around the
desperately embarrassed Elf, resting a cheek against the golden hair.
Gil's genuine amusement finally infected Glorfindel, forcing him to
see the humor in the situation and join in the laughter.

When they at last settled down, save for the occasional giggle, Gil
brushed shimmering fair hair back from Glorfindel's face and said,
still grinning,

"My dear, I assure you that I certainly know how it all works and if I
give you my word to be slow and careful, if I promise to be gentle, do
you think we could at least try?" He cupped the flushed but lovely
face with a strong hand. "If you would rather wait, I'll understand,
of course, but."

Glorfindel gave a final chuckle and then put an arm round Gil's neck,
looking up into his eyes.

"Slow and careful and gentle sounds perfect," he said.  "I think I've
waited long enough. It's time I found out."

They lay kissing quietly for a few minutes, recreating the earlier
mood, until Gil, with a final caress, released the blonde and
retrieving the oil, told him to turn onto his side. When he looked
back, Glorfindel was lying as instructed, stretched out like a golden
cat and facing the fire.

Settling down behind him, Gil took his time, kissing Glorfindel's neck
and shoulders and stroking his hair, before placing his hand behind an
upper thigh and pushing gently, murmuring,

"Draw your knee up to your chest - it will make this easier for us
both." He then slipped his left arm under Glorfindel's shoulder,
drawing him close, and whispered, "Give me your hand."

Taking the long fingered hand, which was so much more like a
musician's than a warrior's, within his own, Gil linked their fingers.
Resting his free hand on Glorfindel's buttock and spreading him open,
Gil pushed forward firmly, until the head of his shaft had overcome
the expected tightness and entered his lover.

He paused a moment while placing a steadying hand on Glorfindel's hip,
and then with his usual approach to difficult actions of 'getting it
over with', arched abruptly forward, burying himself within his
partner to the hilt.

Glorfindel's head jerked back and his breath hissed sharply with a
sound of pain, but on the third attempt, Gil found his pleasure spot
and was rewarded with Glorfindel crying out and thrusting back against
him. Gil nodded to himself, satisfied, and moved his right hand down
to grasp his lover's suddenly steel hard arousal.

"Careful enough?" he asked, resting his cheek against Glorfindel's and
laughing huskily at the response, which was an almost incoherent
growl. Tightening his arm around his partner and squeezing the hand
clasped in his, Gil began to thrust into him, slowly at first and then
faster and deeper, finally burying his face in the golden hair, all
caution forgotten, and giving himself over to ecstasy.

Lying beneath him, Glorfindel moved urgently in time with Gil, his
mind empty of all else save the firm hand wrapped around his pulsing
erection and the unbelievable sensation of Gil within him. At each
thrust he experienced a fire-burst of agonizing delight, pushing him
higher, and as Gil's hips moved harder, quicker, there seemed to be
nothing else in the world, only an overpowering, nameless urgency.

He came at last, chanting Gil's name like a litany and then, to the
sound of Gil's own shout of triumph and completion, he fell back
through white light, sinking down into a dark nothingness.


----------

The cool night air wafting in through the open window carried the
scent of the sea into the quiet room where Elrond lounged, dog on lap,
pretending to read. He was a voracious reader, devouring books with
the hunger of one often deprived, which was close enough to the
truth.

There hadn't been all that many books available while they had been on
the move. Furthermore, Maedhros, who had discovered it was the one
punishment that seemed to make any impact on Earendil's more
intransigent son, had regularly forbid him access to those few books
they had.

Gil-galad had at first teased him, asking if he was attempting to work
his way through the entire library within a year. On learning a little
of the past from Elros, however, he had simply told Elrond to take
what he wanted when he wanted it and, should it not be available, to
order it.

Elrond, taught by bitter experience to be suspicious of large gestures
and vocal declarations, was reassured by Gil-galad's matter-of-fact
attitude. This increased in the face of the King's genuine interest in
his reading choices and his readiness to spend time discussing them.

Elrond was, in fact, developing a strong interest in the healing arts.
He had an almost intuitive response towards illness or injury, and was
surprisingly empathetic in a practical sort of way when dealing with
pain or fear. Blood, gore, and strong emotions held no terror for him.

In the face of almost universal disbelief at the idea of Elrond as a
healer, Gil-galad had been unexpectedly supportive of the idea,
promising to arrange for his training should he decide to pursue this
activity on a more serious level.

Tonight however, in an attempt to educate himself about an area of his
family's history, Elrond was attempting to read about Gondolin. It was
a tome written by a respected author, one who had lived in the Hidden
City and survived the Fall. He had made his way in the world
afterwards by telling the tale of its years, until someone finally had
the idea of getting him to write it all down.

Elrond hoped the author had been a better bard than he was a writer,
as the text was dust dry. The more he read, the more certain he was
that it would be easier to get Glorfindel to sit down and tell him the
tale himself, blushes, disclaimers of eloquence and all else that
might entail.

Thinking of Glorfindel made him frown slightly. He wondered how late
he could wait before casually dropping by without making his intent
obvious.  He wondered, briefly,  if it would be better to wait until
morning. He finally decided that stopping by when he took Laslech out
before bed would be just about acceptable.

-----------------------

Late evening, therefore, found Elrond and Laslech making their way
slowly home after an unsuccessful visit to Glorfindel's rooms, which
had proved to be unoccupied.

Elrond, with his usual insatiable curiosity, decided that a
not-so-casual scrutiny of Gil-galad's sitting room window seemed to be
called for. As far as he could tell, this could best be accomplished
by climbing up onto the parapet of the terrace, which, after checking
to make certain he was unobserved, he did.

A careful, precariously balanced scrutiny suggested that the room was
either in darkness or else very dimly lit. Elrond made a mental note
to go back to see Glorfindel around breakfast time. He found it
difficult to imagine even Ereinion being able to convince the shy
blonde Elf to stay and face the incuriously curious eyes of his
personal staff.

Turning to get back down, he was confronted by the totally unexpected
sight of Erestor looking up at him. He was casually dressed in a thin
shirt, leggings, and soft-looking suede boots.  He had picked up and
was holding Laslech, who was licking his face in adoration. Elrond
dropped lightly down, took a deep breath, and mentally straightened
his shoulders.

"Lovely night for a walk," they said simultaneously.

`````````````````````

The first thing Glorfindel was aware of when he came back to himself
was the soft crackling of the fire next to him. This was followed by
the fact that he lay, utterly relaxed, with his head on a solid
shoulder. Strong arms were holding him while gentle hands stroked his
hair and back. His body felt strange to him, tired and well used in a
different sense to anything he had ever experienced before.

He turned his head slightly and opened his eyes to see Gil watching
him, a half smile on his face, his light, clear eyes content. "Welcome
back," he said, placing a soft kiss on Glorfindel's cheek. His reward
was smiling eyes and a more comfortable settling of the blonde head on
his shoulder.

Glorfindel stroked his hand down over Gil's chest and stomach,
marveling at the solid feel of him, knowing that he was in exactly the
right place and time at last. He did, however, have a question, the
answer to which was becoming clearer to him by the minute.

Observing Gil's slightly self-satisfied air and the proprietary way he
was being held, he reached up and wound dark hair round his hand and
pulled firmly. Gil slanted a look at him and raised a querying brow.

"Where did the oil come from?" Glorfindel asked softly.

Gil-galad briefly considered lying, but knew this would be a bad
beginning.  Glorfindel was someone with whom he wished to share very
much more than just one night.

"I put it there earlier," he admitted. "We have had a good chance to
get to know one another, we were going to he spending the evening
alone, I just hoped that, perhaps."

"Dalbros and Erestor didn't really cancel at the last minute, did
they?" Glorfindel asked, keeping his grip on the black hair. "They
were never invited, were they, Gil?"

Gil rolled his eyes then tried playfully to slap away the hand
gripping his hair.

"No, they were invited," he insisted cheerfully. "I have never planned
a long term seduction in my life. I don't seem to have the attention
span for it. No, I uninvited them, this afternoon."

"You told them not to come?"

"This afternoon," he confirmed with a sigh, his voice now becoming
more serious. He turned to study Glorfindel's face as he
continued.

"Almost since we met I've sought your company, found myself thinking
of you when we're apart. This morning I realized just how much I
wanted to be with you, and I knew you felt it too. I hoped tonight you
would be willing to act on those feelings. Which you were. Therefore
the oil."

"Therefore the oil," Glorfindel agreed. A thought struck him and he
half rose, almost spluttering in his disbelief. "And therefore all
that wine!  You tried to get me drunk, you - you."

Gil was shaking with laughter as he pulled the almost speechless Elf
forcibly back down to lie on top of him and held him tightly.

"Oh you didn't have nearly enough to make you drunk," he disclaimed.
"It was simply enough to help you relax, make you less likely to get
up and run if I did something untoward like trying to kiss you. You're
really skittish about that sort of thing till you get used to it, I've
noticed."

"You tried to get me drunk." Glorfindel subsided with bad grace,
shaking his head. "I will never, never be able to trust you again. Of
all the underhanded."

Gil chuckled and rolled them over so that they lay facing one another,
warm and at ease together, covered by a throw he had pulled from one
of the chairs earlier.

"Be honest. Aren't you just a little glad I am?" he asked, and with an
air of finality silenced him with a kiss.

Chapter Six

Erestor was prepared to admit defeat. Half the inhabitants of the
Palace complex appeared to be out for an evening stroll, and the
gardens offered little in the way of the privacy he was seeking. He
decided to leave his quest till daylight, and was about to ascend the
final flight of steps that would lead him back to his room when his
attention was claimed by a small whimper. Curiosity aroused, he went
to investigate. Whatever his expectations, they hardly matched the
reality, which turned out to be a sight unlikely in the extreme.

Elrond was standing balanced on the narrow stone balustrade that ran
the length of the terrace, apparently studying one of the windows
above him. He stood etched by torchlight, which traced the outline of
his body, the curve of those endless legs. His hair was caught back
loosely and sparkled dimly in the soft light, forming a nimbus around
his head. Erestor stopped as though turned to stone and stared.
Unbidden, a picture flashed through his mind of that body unclothed,
that hair unbound, that head thrown back in similar manner, in
ecstasy.

He was brought back to reality by another sad whine. The puppy was
watching her companion in bemusement and had finally decided she
didn't like what she saw. Erestor pulled himself together, moved
forward on silent feet, and bent to pick her up. As he was being
rewarded for this action by having his face thoroughly washed, the
Half-elf turned to descend.

For a moment Elrond froze, his body a study in arrested motion.
Shadowed eyes met Erestor's, a momentary look of dismay crossed the
young face, and then he dropped down to the terrace with cat-like
grace. Erestor waited, curious to see how long the Half-elf would need
to recover from the unpleasant surprise of discovering he had an
audience.

Elrond stood studying him. Light, either from the torch or the newly
risen moon, reflected off gray eyes, giving them a dangerous, almost
feral glitter. Erestor's mind raced.  He briefly wondered whose rooms
faced this side of the grounds and made a mental note to enquire in
the morning.  Meanwhile he urgently needed to say something, anything,
to set the right tone.

"Nice night for a walk," he offered in a completely neutral voice. It
took a moment to realize the echo he seemed to hear was in fact Elrond
offering the same throw-away comment. They stared at each other,
silenced by the likelihood of this happening.  Elrond's face
lightened. He gave Erestor a quick, interested look from under raised
brows as he reached out for the dog.

"Were you on your way somewhere in particular, or are you simply
enjoying the night air?" he asked.

Erestor took his cue from Elrond's approach. "There is an exercise
routine I like to perform morning and evening," he explained. "Nothing
complex, just lunges and balance. I'm looking for a quiet corner,
somewhere with a little space but also reasonably private."

Elrond looked thoughtful for a moment, staring into nothingness. Then
he put the dog down, pretending he had not first surreptitiously
rubbed his cheek against her head, and said, "I think I might know
somewhere suitable. Come."

They went along the terrace, down some side stairs, following an
involved and slightly circuitous route. Erestor would have no
difficulty remembering the way, though most would soon have been
disoriented. They eventually came out onto an area he was fairly
certain was for the exclusive use of the King and his household.

Trees, flowers, rosemary bushes, and several varieties of lavender
greeted him. Shuttered windows faced onto the garden and a door opened
onto a small patio. Restraining the dog, who had been attempting to
head straight inside, Elrond gestured vaguely.

"Would this be all right?" he asked. "It's usually quiet here."

Ordinarily the prospect of being watched from one of the windows would
have made this location out of the question, but when he considered
the possible identity of the watcher, Erestor found he could smile and
say, with absolute sincerity,

"This is exactly what I was looking for."

Elrond gave him a pleased sort of a look and sank bonelessly to the
ground.  They shared a moment of silence before he remembered.
"Oh, you don't mind me staying to watch, do you?"

----------

Elrond sat on the grass, leaning back against a tree, Laslech lying
close to him, seeking warmth. The wind had risen, rustling through the
fragrant herb bushes, teasing at his soft, dark hair. The lamp on the
patio had burnt low but the moon, dipping in and out of clouds,
provided sufficient light to illuminate the scene.

He watched, absorbed, as Erestor followed the slow, almost sensual
routine, dipping, lunging, out and up, moving under a swirl of heavy,
night dark hair. Elrond absently stroked the puppy's ears, while
appreciating the effect of dappled moonlight playing across pale skin,
occasionally lighting ebony hair. 

He had planned to guide Erestor to the quiet corner Glorfindel
regularly favoured, but had decided instead on the secluded area onto
which his own rooms faced. There had been no premeditation in this;
Elrond was a creature of impulse and instinct, often confused by his
own choices. A steadily increasing pressure and warmth in the region
of his groin suggested this choice had been a good one.

----------------

The sky was barely light when Glorfindel woke, not slowly but
instantly and completely. At some point in the night Gil had woken
him, interspersing the soft calling of his name with light kisses. In
response to his sleepy murmur, the King had said, "Come, sweetheart,
the fire has almost died, the floor grows harder by the minute. I
think I can do better than this for us. Let's get to bed."

He had followed, the cover they had been sharing draped loosely around
his shoulders, while Gil, naked and at ease with his body, led them
through to his bedroom. Glorfindel had had an impression of a sparsely
furnished room, small but airy, lit by a lamp that had burnt very low.
 Gil turned to him, his eyes sleepy and smiling, and pulled him into
an embrace, removing the wrap with one hand as he bent to initiate a
kiss. In moments, Glorfindel found himself being urged over to the
bed.

They made love for the third time, in considerably more comfort than
previously experienced. The act was quieter, briefer, and yet somehow
sweeter, as they chose mutual pleasure above the urge to simply curl
up and go back to sleep. Gil persuaded him onto his back this time,
and Glorfindel instinctively drew his legs up around his partner's
waist, angling his body as directed by a quick, guiding hand, so as to
make the experience both comfortable and satisfying.

The position felt somehow more `right' to him. Some previously
unsuspected part of him reveled in the sense of surrender, in giving
himself so completely to his partner. He enjoyed holding Gil, being
able to stroke his back, his thick, dark hair. Most of all, he loved
the fact that not only could they continue to kiss, but also he could
see Gil's face as passion overtook him. He discovered that watching
his lover's pleasure aroused an answering excitement in himself of
almost frightening intensity.

They had gone back to sleep almost immediately afterwards, Gil staying
conscious barely long enough to withdraw from him. The King still lay
sprawled across Glorfindel, his head nuzzled into the pillow and half
covered by long, golden hair.  Glorfindel, for his part, had one leg
still over Gil's upper thigh and a hand loosely tangled in his
hair.

He insinuated his body out from under the King's and sat up carefully,
looking around. The lamp had burnt out, but there was sufficient light
now to show him a simply furnished room, decorated in a variety of
greens and blues. It occurred to him, hazily, that Gil-galad had a
rather good eye for colour, something he had noticed but given no
thought to before.

Gil was still sound asleep when Glorfindel left the bed and made his
way through to the sitting room in search of his clothing. He knew the
King was brought a hot drink followed by breakfast at dawn, and he did
not intend to be there when it arrived.

----------

Some time after breakfast, Glorfindel's own uniquely personal view of
reality reasserted itself. Self doubt was a habit too well entrenched
to be set aside by a few weeks of friendship and an evening of
endearments. He was in the garden once again, in his usual corner. He
had wandered round his rooms for a time, but he never felt completely
comfortable there.  He was happier, somehow, in the garden. It was the
place where he felt most at ease. In fact, if he closed his eyes, he
could almost believe he was back at home.

His favourite memories of Gondolin were of the colourful gardens, the
sound of birdsong. He missed the birds of the Hidden City to a degree
that regularly surprised him. He had never given them much thought
when it and they had been no more than the backdrop to his life. He
missed the clean lines of the city, the tall slender towers, and the
surrounding mountains, which had always made him feel, incorrectly as
it turned out, protected and safe.

He sat balanced between an urge to push away longing for a place that
no longer existed, and a suspicion that it might be more comfortable
to dwell in the past a little longer than to examine the memories of
the previous night.

No matter how convincing it had all seemed last night, no matter how
absolutely he had been prepared to trust Gil, morning's light, unaided
by firelight, laughter and wine, suggested otherwise. He found himself
wondering if Gil was already regretting the events of the evening.
After all, the King had had rather a lot to drink himself, perhaps
more than enough to cloud his usually good judgment.

The blonde Elf contemplated his own probable naivety. Having managed,
with very little effort, to get Glorfindel naked and willing in his
arms, Gil had openly admitted to lying in order to create the
situation that had made that possible. There was no reason to believe
that, once the novelty wore off, he would have any further interest in
continuing a relationship, which for him, would probably qualify as a
fairly average seduction. For Glorfindel, however,  it had been an act
of deep significance.

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up, hoping that, despite a very busy
morning schedule, Gil had made time to seek him out. He knew that five
minutes in that confident presence would be enough to lay all doubt to
rest. Instead of Gil, however, he found himself facing Elrond,
accompanied, as ever, by Laslech. The young Half-elf, his hair in its
usual disorder, was wearing immodestly sheer gray silk and carrying a
small, covered basket and a flask. 

Elrond took a moment to persuade the dog to sit - this being the first
step in his plan to teach her good manners, as Elros seemed to have no
time to spare for it.  While doing so, he studied Glorfindel. Elrond
had intended some joke about the small likelihood of receiving a
decent breakfast from Ereinion, who had a preference for simplicity
where the morning meal was concerned. A glance silenced him.  The
blonde looked terrible.

A flash of cold, white anger showed for a moment in Elrond's eyes.
However, the only witness was Glorfindel himself, and he had other
concerns. Elrond took a deep breath, summoned up calm, and then said
in a voice that would have been unrecognizable in its gentleness to
everyone who knew him, with the exception of Elros,

"I got us breakfast. Let's go back to my rooms to eat, it's cold out
here."

----------

The breakfast, which Elrond had intended to be shared while teasing
facts from Glorfindel to compare against the rumours of his cousin's
bedroom prowess, consisted of little honeyed oat cakes, sliced fruit,
handfuls of dried dates and raisins - an exotic and hugely expensive
treat - and fruit juice lightly spiked with miruvor. They were
alone as Elros was already up and out, his life a round of meetings,
discussions, and lessons.

They ate for a while in silence, Elrond savoring the little collection
of delicacies he had managed to beg from the kitchen, Glorfindel
nibbling disinterestedly on an oat cake, until finally Elrond said in
a quiet, firm voice,

"You'd better tell me what happened. Otherwise I will just go and ask
Ereinion myself."

Glorfindel looked up in undisguised horror.

"No, you will do no such thing," he said, pure fright at the knowledge
that Elrond was perfectly capable of doing so helping him to find the
words. Impossible to intimidate, and well aware of his reputation,
which had taken him some time and effort to entrench, Elrond proceeded
to stare down his unhappy breakfast companion.

Finally, looking down at the remains of the oat cake, Glorfindel
murmured, "Nothing happened that you'd want to know about. We had
dinner, we had some wine, we -" He stopped at this point, looking for
the right words.

"Got naked?" Elrond offered helpfully, and was alarmed to see that,
instead of simply blushing as expected, Glorfindel seemed to actually
shrink into himself.

The blonde took a deep breath, gave up the uneven battle, and nodded.
"All right, call it what you like. Why do you need to know? And why am
I answering you?"

Elrond considered his words carefully. "I think I really want to know
why you are sitting eating breakfast here with me, what you were doing
out in the garden alone. In other words, why aren't you with him now?
 I'm trying to understand what went wrong."

"I left before he woke up. I couldn't very well stay and be found when
he was brought his early morning tea after all." Glorfindel told him,
making one final attempt to prevent Elrond from taking the
conversation down unwelcome paths.

Elrond simply continued to stare at him expectantly, and Glorfindel
realized that possibly he did need to talk to someone who might be
able to help him make sense of it all.  Elrond was young in years, but
certainly not in life experience, which was what counted. Taking a
breath, the blonde poured the words out quickly, before he could
change his mind.

"I keep going round in circles. Erestor and Dalbros weren't there
after all. Gil lied to them and to me. He told them he had a meeting
and he told me they cancelled and I didn't even think it was strange
because he kept filling my wine cup - afterwards he joked that the
wine was to help me relax. And then, when he kissed me, of course it
felt perfect, completely right...."

Elrond sat listening as this tumble of words trailed off into silence,
his chin resting on linked hands, his face expressionless. Finally he
said, "Glori, tell me something. Did anything happen last night that
upset you or made you uncomfortable? Is that what this is about?"

"No, of course not," Glorfindel exclaimed, shocked, once he had worked
out what Elrond was trying to ask him.  "How can you ask something
like that? Nothing... I mean, I don't really know if there was
anything - unusual - about any of it, I've never done this before, but
it didn't seem." His voice trailed off.

"Never ."

Glorfindel shook his head, caught by surprise. He had not intended to
mention that slightly embarrassing fact. Elrond sat, brows raised
slightly, staring at nothing, and thinking his own thoughts. Finally,
he got up and went to stand behind Glorfindel, resting sensitive hands
lightly on his shoulders. He felt the tension in them, another crime
to lay at Ereinion's door.

"Nothing unusual at all. He just lied through his teeth and tried to
get you to drink more than you were accustomed to. He was just being
Ereinion, really."

----------

Mid morning found Ereinion Gil-galad seated in his workroom at the
large table that passed for a desk. He had dismissed the more
conventional design as being too small for his needs. He liked space,
and worked best when everything he might need was available and within
his sight. He drove his assistants to distraction, but in this one
matter, he found it extremely useful to be King. It meant he could
simply insist on doing things his way.

He was working on three projects at the moment. There was a long
report on the establishment of a new settlement further up the coast.
It sounded like a friendly, hopeful sort of place, which he planned to
make an effort to visit sometime in the near future.

Next there was a disturbingly incomplete inventory of the contents of
the armory at the military encampment at the foot of the Forland Pass,
which was the guard post responsible for the security of the main
crossing point of the Lhûn.

Finally, he had to finalize the details of a formal farewell dinner
for Elros. He would miss his young cousin, whose departure oversea had
been postponed as long as possible at Gil-galad's personal insistence.
He had been adamant that Elros first receive the kind of schooling
that would benefit a King before sending him to shepherd the growth of
the new land over the sea.

He had made a few notes on the page, with the idea of perhaps
consulting with Elrond later. The Half-elf made every effort to avoid
discussions that referred to his brother's imminent departure. The
attitude was quite understandable to Gil, but he could hardly object
to being asked basic questions about such matters as Elros' preference
between red and white wine.

Putting the long, detailed list aside, he reached for the inventory
again. He was about to write a note asking for a more complete
accounting before he would be prepared to sign it, when a small sound
made him look up. Gil-galad was confronted by a sight that made him
put down his parchment and lean back in his chair.

Elrond stood watching him work. He was dressed in a sober,
conservative outfit: gray leggings, a pale green shirt, and a loose
gray tunic with green detail. His hair was firmly braided, not a lock
out of place. The dog, for the first time since he had taken charge of
it, was absent. He was impeccably turned out, neat to a fault.
Gil-galad prepared himself for more or less anything. He knew trouble
when he saw it.

Chapter 7

Glorfindel sat quietly as Elrond's strong fingers massaged his neck
and shoulders and felt the tension slowly beginning to drain out of
him. In the comfortable silence, the rising wind could be heard,
rattling the windows.

"I think I was over-reacting earlier," he said finally. It was
starting to occur to him that he had probably described Gil's
actions in a less than flattering light. "It's not really about Gil,
anyway. It's about me. I get things tangled up sometimes, explain them
badly."

Elrond snorted. "I was wondering how long it was going to take you to
start making excuses for him. Someone needs to point out to my cousin
that it can't always be about what he wants, and it can't always be
where and when he wants it, either."

Glorfindel shook his head and said, his voice soft and a little sad,
"It's as though I threw him away, made him irrelevant."

Elrond gave firmer attention to the tense shoulders. "What do you
mean, Glori? Threw whom away?" he asked, completely confused at the
apparent change in direction.

"Ecthelion," Glorfindel said simply. "Every day I give up something
more, and last night I finally gave him up for good. The worst part is
that I try so hard not to dwell on the past that I didn't even
understand what was wrong to begin with. 

Elrond continued massaging, keeping his movements smooth and even. "Do
you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly.

Glorfindel seemed to think for a minute, then said slowly,

"I knew Ecthelion for years, and I loved him, but I always said no.
What happened last night makes him look - smaller somehow."

Glorfindel paused and then went on more animatedly, "It's the same
with everything - my past, my family, my city, my King. In the
beginning, it felt like trying to be two different people, but now I
think I'm starting to forget who I really am.  No one will talk about
the past; everyone acts as though I had no life before this one. I
feel lost, cast adrift. Soon the only Glorfindel will be the one
brought to shore at Mithlond a few months ago."

"I don't know about anyone else," Elrond said thoughtfully, "but I was
never sure if you wanted to talk about the past, or even how much you
remembered of it.  I wanted to ask you about Gondolin, what it was
really like, but I wasn't sure.."

Glorfindel flashed him a small, quick smile over his shoulder, his
face lighting up. "I didn't think you'd be interested," he said.

"Talking about something has a way of keeping it alive, so we would
both gain from it. I was trying to read about Gondolin, but the only
book I could find was deathly dull," Elrond told him  "The writer
somehow managed to make even the Fall seem boring. As for your fight
with the Balrog.." His voice trailed off in something like horror as
he realised what he was saying.

To his surprise and relief, Glorfindel just shook his head in
something rather like amusement. "You might even know more about it
than I do," he suggested. "It all happened so fast in the end that
I've never been clear about all the details."  He leaned back into
Elrond's touch.  "If you're interested, I'd love to tell you about
Gondolin. Your roots lie there, after all. Your great-grandfather was
my King."

He started talking in a quiet voice about his city, speaking about
small everyday things:  her parks and buildings, her people, the
birds, the encircling mountains.  His voice stumbled a little on
occasion as he bit back tears.

Ecthelion was a thread within this narrative as well, someone adored
but never surrendered to. Elrond listened to the idealized description
and quickly built up a picture of a self-absorbed Elf, large on
demands, but with no apparent interest in anyone's needs beyond his
own.  He silently applauded Glorfindel's instincts. He would not have
trusted Ecthelion for a moment.

Finally, as he had wished, Elrond heard firsthand about the end of the
Hidden City, of his grandparents' courage, of Dragons and of Balrogs.
Ecthelion died, the High King fell. Buildings burned, death rained
down on people attempting to flee in terror. Finally, as though it was
a small thing, a matter of no great importance amidst all this
destruction, Glorfindel described the stand taken by a lone Elf,
neither the largest nor the strongest of Turgon's warriors, holding a
creature of fire at the point of his sword while those under his
protection escaped.

And he spoke of death: fire  and a roar like thunder and a whip of
flame, and of smoke, burning his lungs, his eyes, feeling his
eyelashes shrivel on his face as he fought a being of nightmares. He
had known himself defeated before he began; he was facing something
far larger, stronger, older. He had known, also, that he simply had to
hold the demon back for a while - just a little while - long enough
for the smallest feet, the weakest legs to make good their escape. No
longer than that. A life measured once in eternity, now defined in
minutes.

He had nearly beaten the monster too, by chance, by luck, by virtue of
his determination to hold it off for as long as possible. Only at the
last, the whip caught and tangled in his long hair, which he had not
been able to find time to braid back.  They had fallen together, and
Glorfindel could remember his hand shrivelling, lost with his final
sword-thrust into the depths of that being of fire and darkness.

He remembered pain that went beyond pain and turned instead to a deep
biting cold, and an overwhelming sadness at this ending, at the loss
of sun and wind and beauty and love. And then there had been a place
of gray. He passed into mist, to emerge again in the boat off the quay
at Mithlond, waking from mist.

There was silence for a time, save for the sound of the wind, then
Glorfindel seemed to shake himself before saying,

"I wasn't implying that I regret having been returned like this, even
if I don't understand it. And from the time I arrived, everyone has
been wonderfully welcoming. Círdan was kind when I needed compassion
and quiet; you and Elros welcomed me. And Gil." Glorfindel was still
for a minute. Finally he said, "Last night it was as though my entire
life had brought me to that moment. It was as though everything before
had been painted in shades of gray, and I saw colour for the first
time."

He sat quietly, trying to find the right words, while Elrond ceased
any pretence at massage and stood instead stroking the shining golden
hair that had dragged the Elf to his death. Something caught his eye,
and thinking it a trick of the light, he looked closer. Faintly, as
though painted on with a fine brush, was a thin line of palest bronze
in Glorfindel's hair. It began close to his scalp and twined down to a
spot half way down his back, before fading again into bright gold.

With a fingertip Elrond traced the line imprinted into the hair,
careful not to draw the blonde's attention. He never mentioned it, and
to the best of his knowing, no one else ever noticed it, but he
understood what he had seen. Written softly, flame in gold, Glorfindel
carried the mark of the Balrog.

"Last night I gave Gil the only thing that hadn't been taken from me,"
Glorfindel said at last. "There is nothing else. It was something I
would have given Ecthelion, long ago, but.it never felt right,
somehow. That's why I felt bad about it, I suppose.  I don't even
expect it to mean as much to Gil as it did to me. There must have been
so many before me."

He smiled wistfully. "It was nice to finally belong somewhere, just
for a little while. I suppose I need to learn to enjoy it for what it
is and not expect too much. I need to be realistic about something for
once in my life."

Elrond, still staring at the scarred hair, roughly wiped unexpected
tears from his cheeks and took a breath or two to steady his voice and
bring himself back from the unequal battle on the Cristhorn Pass, to
the room in Lindon, the sound of the gusting  wind. He remembered
briefly his doubts at Glorfindel's ability to tell a tale of any
length, and smiled at himself and his instant judgments. He returned
his hands to the strong shoulders and dropped his head so that his
chin rested on the top of Glorfindel's head.

"You have every right to expect to be more than just another name on
Ereinion's list," he said firmly. "You are nothing like his usual
choice, anyway. You're smart and kind and funny and don't even
understand that you are a hero -"

"I'm not funny, Elrond. I wish I was, but I'm not."

"Oh, you're improving," the Half-elf chuckled. "You just need to stop
taking everything quite so seriously. Including Ereinion."

----------

As he made his way to his cousin's office, dressed with the sort of
attention to detail suitable for an interview with one of the Valar -
or possibly Lord Círdan in a particularly bad mood - Elrond
contemplated the less convenient side of allowing people into his
life. It was a very new experience for him. Well, there was Laslech,
of course, but she hardly required the same sort of concern and
involvement Glorfindel needed.

It was one thing to feel empathy and concern for Glorfindel, who was
still adjusting to new people, new surroundings and was, therefore,
highly vulnerable. It was something entirely different to take the
next logical step and confront his cousin concerning his intentions
towards the blonde.

He knew Gil-galad's reputation for passionate but short-lived affairs
and had drawn his own conclusions about what had transpired from
Glorfindel's admittedly brief description of their evening. Something
had to be said, and Elrond hoped he could avoid being thrown out long
enough to make his point.

When he reached the large office Gil-galad usually referred to as his
workroom, it was to find the door open and neither of the assistants
anywhere to be seen. The King sat with his back to the window, the
light outlining his broad shoulders. He was bent over a small pile of
documents selected from the larger sprawl on the table. The sun hinted
at soft red lights in his lustrous black hair. Faint, daytime sounds
drifted in through the open window. The room itself was quiet,
peaceful.

Elrond cleared his throat gently, just sufficient to break the
silence. Gil-galad, the good soldier, responded immediately. For a
moment he stared blankly, then he put down the parchment and leaned
back, looking the Half-elf up and down expressionlessly. He nodded
slowly, as though something had been confirmed for him.

"Good morning, Elrond," he said mildly. "Something I can help you with?"

Elrond took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had recognised
the routine Erestor had followed the previous evening as one practiced
by warriors from the Wandering Companies. Besides their expertise in a
variety of the killing arts, they were noted for the mental discipline
that gave them, in time, the ability to distance themselves at will
from fear and tension. He wondered if he could persuade Erestor to
teach him this.

"I wanted a word with you about Glorfindel, if you have a moment," he
said carefully. "You were the one who pointed out that Elros and I
owed him for the Balrog, and I suppose looking after his interests
should correctly be our responsibility.

Gil-galad continued to study him, his face expressionless. Elrond knew
that the matter between Glorfindel and the King was essentially none
of his business.  Now that he was actually facing Gil-galad, he wasn't
even sure what to say, how to explain his concern without going into
detail about a conversation it had not been necessary for Glorfindel
to tell him was confidential.

He was, however, determined to it made very clear to Gil-galad that
using and discarding the blonde in his usual way was not going to be
acceptable. Elrond, who had noticed early that appearances were
important in setting a mood, had even gone to the trouble of dressing
in a manner that would suggest he should be taken very seriously.

"I just wanted to be sure you realise how disoriented he still is. You
do know he's far from settled, don't you?"  Elrond asked, pushing
ahead with the approach he had decided on while making his way to the
upper level.  "It's also very difficult for him, I think, to get used
to his changed circumstances. For the first time in his life he has
nothing of his own and is completely dependant on others." 

The last point had been a mistake. Gil-galad's eyes narrowed slightly,
and he leaned forward, propping an elbow on the table's edge and
resting his chin on his hand, although he remained quiet. That
unblinking stare was beginning to affect Elrond's usually steady nerves.

"You are suggesting - what?" Gil-galad finally asked.

"I'm suggesting that he's extremely vulnerable right now, and he seems
to have developed quite - romantic - feelings towards you. I wanted to
be sure you were keeping all these facts in mind," Elrond said in an
even voice.

Gil-galad blinked. "Are you suggesting I've taken advantage of him in
some way?" he asked in a dangerously soft voice.

Elrond heard the warning, but kept going anyway.

"I'm suggesting," the Half-elf said with careful patience, trying to
pick his words, "that what you might consider a pleasant interlude may
seem somewhat more important to him."

"Ah." Gil-galad said tonelessly. "Let me see if I've understood this
correctly. Not only am I taking advantage of the fact that he is
completely dependant on me, but I am also actively misleading him and
preying on his feelings for me.  Is that what you're trying to say?"

"I think I'm trying to politely express my concern that you might end
up treating him like yet another of your casual bedmates," Elrond
retorted, his tongue responding without reference to his brain.

Gil-galad had always indulged his two young cousins, ever mindful of
the trauma they had survived, and allowed Elrond more or less free
rein with his tongue. But this time the Half-elf had gone too far, and
he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth.

Gil-galad sat utterly immobile, looking at him. Elrond's well-defined
survival sense told him that, should the King start to get up, running
might be the sensible option. Gil-galad's usually friendly blue eyes
had changed. They were very clear, very cold, like a winter sky.
Elrond felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room.
Finally, in a quiet, even voice, the King said, "What was that?"

Too far down the road to turn back, Elrond stood his ground. "You
lured him to your rooms, you fed him alcohol, knowing he drinks very
little, you took him on the floor - on the *floor*!  You didn't even
respect him enough to offer him your bed. What else should I think?
He trusts you, and worse still, he doesn't even seem to realise he has
a right to expect more from you."

He never saw Gil-galad move. Elrond's words were cut off as alarmingly
strong hands grasped his arms. His next awareness was of being pinned
up against the wall beside the door, held at eye level to the King.
Alarmingly, where Elrond would have expected those eyes to be blazing
with anger, they were still ice cool. Deadly.

"Is this how Glorfindel feels?" Gil-galad wasn't even breathing hard.
Elrond, who prided himself on being fit and physically quite tough,
knew himself to be too far outclassed to even begin to consider
struggling. He kept talking, however; he'd survived worse experiences
during his time with Maedhros, whom he had irritated beyond endurance
on numerous occasions. At least the King was mentally stable. He'd had
his doubts about Maedhros.

"I got him to admit that there had been a lot of wine, and that it
happened on the floor in front of the fire. And he implied that he
knows it wouldn't have meant anywhere near as much to you as it did to
him. It wasn't right, Ereinion," he added recklessly. "I know you
wouldn't deliberately set out to hurt anyone, but I think you might be
forgetting that contrary to popular opinion, he isn't some mysterious
hero. He's confused and alone and. I just wanted you to be careful and
not make things even more painful for him. He has too much else to
deal with right now. He just needs to feel safe, I think," Elrond
finished quietly. "You seem to give him that."

The expressionless blue eyes considered him a moment longer, and then
he was released. Elrond leaned against the wall, breathing hard.
Unexpectedly a hand reached out and began to tidy his hair, which had
somehow started to come loose again.

"No one was used, Elrond, give me a bit more credit than that,"
Ereinion said quite gently. "I know how vulnerable he is. Not just
right now, but probably for most of his . previous life, too. If
Glorfindel feels I was less than sincere, then that is to my shame and
a matter for me to rectify. I respect the fact that you were angry on
his behalf, and I apologize if I hurt you."

He dropped the hand to rest in an almost friendly manner on Elrond's
shoulder and gave him a very slight shake. "And if you should dare try
to tell me how to conduct my private life again - ever - be warned.
Next time I won't be as tolerant." 

Gil-galad released the younger Elf, giving him a slight push in the
general direction of the door.  Elrond gave him an enquiring look, for
once having the sense to keep quiet. Gil-galad nodded and pointed.
Elrond, rather to the relief of both of them, left.

Gil-galad went back to the table and looked thoughtfully at the work
awaiting his attention. His rule was that business came first, that
more personal concerns could not be indulged in until such time as the
tasks  outlined for the day were completed.

However, Elrond had gone to a lot of trouble, right down to that
impeccably tidy hair, before confronting him, and his concern had been
genuine, even though less than diplomatically expressed. Gil-galad was
good at getting his priorities right. For the first time since
becoming King, he left the day's work unfinished and went instead in
search of Glorfindel.

Chapter 8

Glorfindel had spent an unsatisfactory sort of morning. Having no
duties or responsibilities had swiftly lost any attraction it might
have held, and he intended making a point of asking Gil what plans,
if any, had been made for his future. He had never known this amount
of leisure in his life, and it was becoming increasingly difficult
to find ways to fill the day.

Talking to Elrond had solved little of the confusion he had felt on
waking, but sharing the past had certainly helped lift his spirits.
He was often surprised by how genuinely caring Elrond could be,
especially when he thought no one was paying too much attention.

Glorfindel knew that a large part of his apprehension was rooted in
his personal inexperience. He had no idea what would happen next
time he and Gil met, nor what was expected of him. What he did know
was that if Gil placed as little importance on their night together
as he feared might be the case, then something in him would die a
little and Ecthelion's memory would return to accuse him for a
very long time.

He was, in fact, busy telling himself to stop worrying until he
could see Gil's response for himself, when, turning to take a
shortcut across the lawn, he spotted the King striding purposefully
straight towards him.

The previous night rushed back, a tumble of words and caresses,
naked skin and life-altering pleasure. Glorfindel felt the colour
rise in his cheeks and cursed himself. Gil-galad came to a stop in
front of him, giving him an intent look before smiling his greeting.

"You're a bit of a challenge to find, you know," Gil
commented. "This is my second attempt. The first time I seemed to
keep missing you. Where do you get to when you're on your own?"
His tone was easy, amiable, but his eyes were alert.

Glorfindel returned the smile, gesturing vaguely. "I just left the
stables. I wanted to have a look at Carod; he was limping a little
yesterday."

Gil nodded. "I wondered if you might be there. Are you on your way
anywhere in particular, or do you have time for us to talk for a few
minutes?"

Glorfindel laughed a trifle wistfully. "Gil, time is something I
have more than enough of. Please, whatever it is, go ahead."

He marveled at the lack of awkwardness in their conversation. Gil
had said nothing out of the ordinary, which was only natural as they
were in that most public of places - the central courtyard of the
Palace, but there was a look in his eye that had not been there
previously, a warmth that effortlessly diminished Glorfindel's
concerns. Unbidden, his thoughts flew back and he could almost feel
Gil's mouth on his throat, and was startled by the sudden heat that
washed over him.

Gil was watching him with interest, still smiling slightly. "Let's
get inside out of this gale," he suggested, gesturing towards the
entrance leading to the main staircase. "We can't talk here. Not
about the topic I have in mind, at any rate."

They went inside together, up the staircase and along corridors,
finally reaching Gil-galad's workroom. Once inside, the King closed
the door and wordlessly pulled Glorfindel to him and proceeded to
kiss him. Glorfindel stopped trying to think and simply responded.

The kiss started slowly and unpretentiously enough, but quickly
accelerated into something considerably more than a simple
expression of affection. When at last they separated, both were
flushed and panting, leaning against the wall and each other.
Glorfindel's long, blonde hair had somehow wound itself around Gil's
arm and hand, and Glorfindel's hands were under the King's shirt,
pressed flat against warm flesh. There seemed to be very few
questions left; Gil, however, had a couple.

"Tell me something," he asked, between breaths. "Did you feel in any
way used, taken advantage of, last night? That I was less than
sincere? And where the hell were you when I woke up, anyway?"

"Gil, I didn't feel ready to let the whole of Lindon know whom you
amused yourself with last night."

Gil broke in firmly. "I did not `amuse' myself, as you put it. Is
that the way it seemed to you? I spent the night with someone I
haven't known very long, but who means an immense amount to me." He
leaned in again and emphasized the words with a lingering kiss.

Glorfindel drew back, shaking his head. "Gil, no, of course I didn't
think that, not really. But there will be so much gossip and
speculation."

"What, more than what there is already? They've been laying odds on
it for the last two weeks, I believe..."

Glorfindel stared into the light blue eyes in disbelief, seeking
some hint of mischief, but they were completely serious. Something
of his discomfort must have shown in his face because, after
returning his stare, Gil leaned forward with a sigh so that their
foreheads touched. "All right," he said eventually. "I'll give you a
little time for discretion, but I am not prepared to act as though
we are doing something wrong. It's enough that I had to hear
Elrond's thoughts on the subject; I don't want anyone else getting
the same idea."

"Elrond?" Glorfindel asked, puzzled.

Gil nodded, half laughing. "You saw him this morning, am I right?
Let me guess - you got trapped into telling him where and how you
spent the night, didn't you?"

They stood, leaning together with their foreheads still touching,
Glorfindel sighed. "He's impossible. Before you even realize you've
opened your mouth, you find yourself telling him things you didn't
even know you knew... Should I have kept quiet?" he asked with a
sudden flash of concern. "I wasn't discussing you, I just.needed to
talk and he's a good listener, strangely enough..."

Gil was struck by the wistful tone, and wondered for the hundredth
time how he would have coped with being drawn out of his time and
place and set down amongst strangers with no idea of what was
expected from him - no reason for his continued existence. He drew
Glorfindel closer, resting his cheek against the waves of soft,
golden hair.

"Of course you can confide in him," he said gently. "And in me as
well, remember? At least he's showing concern for someone other than
himself for a change. He seems almost as fond of you as he is of
that dog. Considering his opinion of most people, you can take that
as a huge compliment."

Glorfindel turned, his head against Gil's shoulder, and glanced
around the room, taking in the quiet disorder out of which the King
was known to be happiest working. The table was in the process of
disappearing under the sprawl of documents, although a corner had
been cleared to make place for a tray bearing an assortment of
bread, cheeses, and fruit as well as an untouched wine cup.

"Haven't you eaten yet?" he asked, still leaning against Gil and
nuzzling his neck softly, not exactly kissing his throat so much as
caressing it with his mouth. He was quite content to stay there
within the circle of Gil's arms, savouring the reassurance that
closeness gave him. Gil - solid, assertive and confident - was the
perfect antidote to insecurity.

"Wasn't really hungry," came the answer, close to his ear. "After
nearly throttling Elrond, I was more interested in finding you,
making sure things were well between us. Food somehow didn't seem
very important."

He gave Glorfindel one final hug and then released him, standing
back to brush gleaming golden hair back from a face that was already
looking far more relaxed than when they had first run into one
another.

"When I found you'd left, I guessed, rightly I hope, that you
probably didn't want to be there when my staff started wandering
through. It wasn't till Elrond accused me that I though you might
have been avoiding me instead. He has a way of making a point," he
added with a rueful smile.

Glorfindel looked concerned. "Looking back, I might not have
explained myself properly. I did try and tell him that, but he
doesn't always listen. I was feeling - unsure about a few things
this morning. I need to start watching my tongue, I suppose."

Gil snorted with amusement. "With Elrond?" he asked.

He turned and went over to the table, scrutinizing the tray, before
retrieving a peach slice.  "Don't waste your time. If he wants to
know something, he'll stop at nothing. He currently has nothing
better to fill his time with. He's bitter and angry and unhappy, and
he makes it his business to share the pain. You like peaches, don't
you? "he added, offering the fruit to Glorfindel who, joining him at
the table, surprised him by resting a hand lightly on his wrist,
leaning forward and allowing himself to be fed.

He licked the juice off Gil's fingers almost unthinkingly and
asked, "Angry about what? I know he's unhappy, though getting him to
talk about something when he doesn't want to is impossible,
but."

Gil, who had been watching Glorfindel with a mixture of curiosity
and increasing interest, selected an orange segment, which he held
offered the blonde after first sampling it himself.  "For most of
his life, the only family he had was Elros. At the end of the month,
they separate for life. Elros goes to Númenor; Elrond stays
here."

He paused, his face thoughtful. This was a decision that he had
found puzzling and unlikely from the start. The twins were very
dissimilar but nonetheless close. He would have expected them to
wish to remain together. No amount of careful probing on his part,
however, had elicited an explanation from either of them.

"They made their choices for whatever reasons appeared relevant to
them at the time," he continued. "Elros seems content enough with
his lot. Elrond, I think, is finding it very hard to come to terms
with losing his brother. Elros is the strong one - Elrond just puts
on a very good face."

Gil stopped talking abruptly as Glorfindel, who was still holding
his wrist, turned it and began to lick the trail of nectar which had
dripped down from the orange. Gil exhaled sharply in response.  He
found another orange portion and teased it lightly against
Glorfindel's lips, then watched, fascinated, as the tip of a pink
tongue licked it slowly, sampling before accepting.  Deep blue eyes
watched him steadily from under golden brown lashes, as Glorfindel
slowly sucked the fruit into his mouth.

"Considerably less inhibited than you were yesterday, aren't you?"
Gil murmured, reaching out a hand to stroke the fair hair which,
worn loose for a change, fell in golden, sunlit waves to below
Glorfindel's waist. The only other person Gil-galad could think of
with similar hair was his aunt Galadriel. "When exactly did you turn
into such a tease?"  

Glorfindel was sucking Gil's fingers now, running his tongue over
each in turn, lapping like a cat. His eyes were mischief-filled as
he released them. "Are you objecting?"

Gil's response was to wind his hand through the silky hair, closing
it over bunches of soft brightness and drawing the blonde towards
him, his eyes studying moist lips with serious intent.

"I like to think I learn something from every new experience,"
Glorfindel said, drawing back slightly from Gil, blue eyes now
sparkling with laughter. "May I show you how much I think I have
learned from you already? Perhaps you could tell me if I need to
give extra attention to anything - if there are any areas where
further study might be indicated?"

Gil raised an amused eyebrow. "I'd be honoured to assist you in your
studies," he said, slowly allowing the hair to slide free from
between his fingers.

For a moment they stared at one another, then Glorfindel leaned
closer and began slowly running his hands down Gil's body, before
finally sinking to his knees and allowing cheek and forehead to take
the place of hands, rubbing and pressing until reaching the place
where Gil's erection strained against his leggings. He looked up
then, sudden uncertainty in his eyes. Gil, both hands now kneading
and bunching the soft, gold hair, met his glance and nodded
wordlessly. Glorfindel moved inconvenient clothing aside and then
proceeded to unfasten the leggings, slowly exposing Gil's penis to
his view.

Carefully, much as he had done earlier with the King's fingers, he
started to explore, licking the swollen head wetly and rubbing his
lips softly back and forth over it. He investigated the surrounding
ridge slowly and thoroughly, then teased the slit with the tip of
his tongue, flicking lightly and making Gil groan. Bending forward
he took the head into his mouth and started to suck, still working
his tongue over it as he did so.

Leaning back against the table which, fortunately, was a solid
fixture and fairly immobile, Gil tightened his grip on the soft hair
and closed his eyes. Fingers lightly, teasingly stroked his shaft,
studying the texture of the tightly stretched skin, brushing back
and forth and producing a sensation that stopped just short of
irritation.

The wet heat of Glorfindel's mouth withdrew, there was a pause as
though he was considering what next to do, then he licked slowly up
the length of the erection with one long, velvet stroke of his
tongue, from base to tip, wet, slick and soft, causing Gil to hiss
sharply. He followed this with a series of sucking kisses back down
to the base, while his determined hands eased Gil's leggings down,
and urged his legs apart for easier access.

Once he was fully exposed nothing happened for a few moments,
although he could feel soft, warm breath against his damp skin. He
was about to open his eyes when Glorfindel's tongue returned, wet
and curious, stroking and exploring the tight sacs. This was soon
replaced by his mouth, which enclosed first one then the other tight
globe, sucking carefully while his tongue remained busy
investigating, lapping, tasting. Then, moving back up to the head of
the throbbing shaft, he paused and then swallowed, taking it in as
deeply as he was capable.

Gil grunted sharply as he was engulfed in heat. Glorfindel lacked
the experience to take him all the way into his throat, but Gil was
certainly in no mood to be fussy about it. One hand had moved round
to cup his ass, holding him steady, the other grasped the lower part
of his penis, moving in rhythm with the sucking motions that were
quickly - too quickly - taking him to the edge.

Gil was trying not to pull the hair which was now tangled through
his fingers and wrapped around his wrist, as the tension within him,
the need, built up higher and higher. Finally though, he lost all
awareness of caution, save for a basic instinct not to thrust too
deeply, and knew nothing except wetness, heat, and pressure, and
then he came, pumping into Glorfindel's willing, surprisingly clever
mouth.


----------

Although normally acutely aware of his surroundings, Elrond had been
wandering aimlessly, his thoughts alternating between the sound of
Glorfindel's voice as he described Gondolin and the look in Gil-
galad's usually friendly blue eyes and his almost unnatural speed.
Sudden awareness returned as he realized he was heading straight for
a black haired Elf, who was busy wrestling awkwardly with a large
crate. 

"Why are you struggling like that? Get someone to see to it for
you," he said, speaking without prior thought for the second time in
a matter of hours. As the words left his mouth, he heard the
underlining of the unsaid division between himself and Erestor who,
as a junior advisor, would obviously not have someone available to
haul crates around for him. He wondered idly at what point his
tongue had finally taken control of his brain.

Erestor blinked, surprised by both the question and the tone of
voice, but chose to overlook the hopefully unintended lack of
courtesy. "I needed to make a few purchases, and I though I could
get them to my room without being late back to work," he said by way
of explanation. He straightened up, pushing braided hair out of his
face and grinned. "This is heavier that I thought and taking longer
than I could ever have imagined."

He was about to ask jokingly if Elrond was offering to help him, but
remembered in time the current chaos to be found in his room. He had
purchased the majority of the items on his list and had simply
deposited them on the floor or bed until he should had time to
reorganize. He had been forced to take the morning off work, which
had required some careful explaining, but Erestor was wonderfully
inventive at need and had found plausible reasons for his absence.

He took in Elrond's appearance with interest, noting the
conservative clothing, the tasteful mithril hair clasps, and the
painfully braided hair. "You must have something important to see
to, please don't let me keep you," he said, smiling to take the
sting from the words. At Elrond's blank look, for he had completely
forgotten the small matter of his appearance, Erestor said, "Well,
the clothes, no dog.."

Elrond had recently been more or less pinned against a wall by a
very large, rather angry Elf. Gil-galad had seriously frightened the
Half-elf, though it was not something he would readily have
admitted. His cousin's speed and strength had been completely
unexpected, and it would also be a long time before he got over the
shock of those ice-cool eyes. Reaction set in, and it made his words
abrupt.

"My choice in clothing is no concern of yours," he snapped, ignoring
the fact that the outfit belonged to Elros. "And I had no idea I was
required to take my brother's dog with me everywhere I went."

He had locked Laslech inside when he left and, accustomed to
spending her days with him, she had whimpered. The sound had
followed him all the way across the garden, each small whine an
accusation.  Feeling guilty was a rare experience for Elrond, and he
disliked it intensely.

Erestor's amber eyes regarded him thoughtfully. "I apologize for
presuming, My Lord," he said in his most formal tones, bending to
retrieve the crate which he had put down while they talked. It
contained ornamentation for a room he suspected the Half-elf would
not be visiting any time soon, if at all. "However, in the future,
you might consider taking your ill humour out at the source, instead
of on whoever happens to be unlucky or unwise enough to cross your
path."

Hefting the crate, he nodded with distant politeness, almost
unbalancing himself in the process, and gritting his teeth, set off
back to his lonely and extremely untidy room. Elrond stared after
him, for once unable to come up with any kind of an appropriate
response. Earlier the Half-elf had thought things were as bad as
they were likely to get. He had been wrong. The day had actually
managed to get worse.

With a final glance in the direction of the waning figure of
Erestor, who had not looked back, he headed for home, and the one
person - albeit four-footed - who he could rely on to still welcome
his company.

----------


They were sitting in the box seat beneath the window on the far side
of the room, Glorfindel leaning back against Gil's chest, his head
against one broad shoulder, with Gil's arms loosely round his waist.
The window looked out over the far side of the grounds, towards the
stables, and was high enough to ensure privacy

"You needed a break," Glorfindel said lazily. "If that mess on the
table is anything to go by, you still have a lot to see to today."

"No more than usual," Gil said ruefully, "Anyone who thinks being
King of Lindon is glamourous should come and spend a few days in
this room. It would soon change their ideas. It's never ending. I
can't believe some of the things that end up being my problem."

"At least you have something to complain about," Glorfindel said,
one hand toying with Gil's fingers that were currently laced
together and resting on his stomach. "I've rested, and I understand
that I needed to do that. I've met the people you seem to think I
should know. I can find my way around without getting lost. Surely
that's enough? All this time on my hands isn't good for me. I need
to feel I'm doing something, being useful in some way."

"Well, you did manage to find something useful to do with part of
your day, at least," Gil chuckled, turning his head to breathe in
the clean fresh scent of the fair hair spilling across them both. "I
know you said you'd rather wait for tonight, but I feel completely
selfish. Are you sure I can't.?"

"I need something to look forward to." Glorfindel
chuckled. "Otherwise the day just stretches ahead endlessly. That's
the heart of the problem," he added, more seriously, tilting his
head back to look at the King. "I don't know why I'm here, Gil, in
fact I have less than no idea. I remember falling into darkness, I
remember waking on the boat, but there's nothing else between. If I
was given a purpose, I somehow failed to retain the memory of it."
He settled his head back against Gil again, smiling, before
adding, "One thing I'm sure of, though. I am quite certain I wasn't
sent back to provide an erotic break in the day for the High King."

"And here I was thinking the Valar really loved me," Gil said,
stroking hair back from smooth skin, as well as out of his mouth, so
that he could rest his cheek against Glorfindel's forehead. "I don't
know what they want from you either, sweetheart. Foolish of me, it
never occurred to me that it was bothering you, which it naturally
would be. I suppose I just thought that in time you would tell me
what you wanted to do with your life."

"If only," Glorfindel laughed wryly. "I lie awake at night worrying
about it. I remember Círdan telling me there must have been a strong
purpose, and then I think that maybe I won't be where I should be,
do what I should do, misuse this second chance."

"Círdan," Gil said thoughtfully. "Most of my life when I've needed
advice or suggestions, that's who I have turned to. I think the time
might have come for us to see what he thinks your role should be. In
addition," he added, pressing a quick kiss to warm skin, "to your
singularly important job of taking my mind off such important
problems as which wines to serve at Elros' farewell dinner."

Chapter 9

"No!" Glorfindel said flatly. "Absolutely not!"

Gil-galad's eyebrows shot up. He knew that Glorfindel, though not
usually forceful in expressing an opinion, still had very much a mind
of his own. This adamant response to what had appeared a reasonable
suggestion was, however, completely unexpected.

A few days after their conversation relating to Glorfindel's future
plans, Gil-galad had gone to speak to Círdan, who he knew would
already have been giving the matter thought. He also knew that Círdan
would prefer, in his usual quiet way, to wait until, as had happened
in the past, Gil came to him for advice.

Círdan, who was spending a few days at the center of government, was
in the suite of rooms kept for his use. He was having a quiet morning
indoors, building a scale model to demonstrate the modifications he
wished to make to the standard coastal trading vessel. He looked up
from the plans spread out before him and nodded a wordless greeting.

Gil-galad waited, as accustomed, until his foster father had finished
familiarizing himself with some detail. Círdan moved away from the
table and over to chairs placed to catch the sunshine slanting weakly
in through the nearby window. Winter would soon be upon them.

They sat and talked lightly of small matters, mainly concerning the
preparations being made for the departure of the last ship to travel,
with the blessing and guidance of the Valar, to Númenor. Gil-galad was
careful to avoid asking about the model being constructed on the work
table; Círdan could be somewhat enthusiastic on the subject of design.
Eventually, without too much effort on Gil-galad's side, the
conversation shifted round to Glorfindel.

Cirdan had obviously given the subject of Glorfindel's future some
thought. Sensing this to be the reason for Gil-galad's visit, he
settled himself more thoroughly into his chair, folding his hands
across his lap. The sunlight touched his hair, giving it the
appearance of mithril.

"I do feel he has been given more than enough time to accustom himself
to his surroundings," Círdan said judiciously. "There has been a
tendency to regard the elapsed time since Glorfindel last walked
Middle-earth as eons long, when in fact Gondolin fell quite recently.
A few things may have changed, but after all, it is not as though he
has been sent to start over in the midst of one of the mortal realms."

Gil-galad knew exactly how lost and disoriented Glorfindel had been,
but thought it best to be quiet and allow the discussion to flow.
Instinct also firmly suggested that he say nothing that might alert
the aged Elf to his changed relationship with Glorfindel. Círdan was a
little old fashioned about such matters.

"Be that as it may," he said, refusing to be drawn, "I have no idea
how best to employ him. They sent him back with no hint as to their
reasons .unless you were told something?" It wouldn't have surprised
Gil-galad. The Valar thought well of the bearded Teleri.

"One evil has been defeated, but not all," Círdan said firmly. "Others
will rise. You have been sent a warrior who was high in Turgon's
esteem. He fought and acquitted himself well in open warfare, and he
has faced and defeated one of Morgoth's creatures of darkness. Who
better to place as commander of your army?"

----------

Glorfindel sat in the room where they had become lovers, and heard
Gil-galad out without interruption, before offering his unambiguous
response. Gil, in the act of bringing them both wine, frowned
slightly. He handed Glorfindel his goblet and then perched on the arm
of the chair, leaning slightly against the blonde and toying with his
shining hair.

"I don't understand," Gil admitted. "You trained for war for most of
your life, you were one of Turgon's senior commanders, you had the
personal skill to defeat a Balrog, you are the perfect choice. You
bring experience, expertise, a reputation."

Glorfindel got up abruptly, put his wine down on a nearby table, and
walked over to the window, where he stood looking out at the gathering
darkness. There was a sense of isolation and sadness about the blonde
Elf, but Gil-galad stayed quiet, giving him time to gather his
thoughts and choose his words before expressing an opinion. Without
turning, Glorfindel said,

"So. I fought in a few notable battles, and I challenged a Balrog.
This fits me to be commander of your army?" he asked. At which point
Gil realised that the air of stillness heralded not sorrow, but
annoyance. "Have you even thought this through, or are you just
interested in giving me something to do that will look impressive?
Something suitable for the King's lover, perhaps?"

No, Gil-galad amended. Not annoyed. Angry. Before he could interrupt
with a protest, Glorfindel continued, "You have no real interest in
how I might feel about this, have you? The whole idea makes no sense,
Gil. Have you even stopped to consider what my reputation is really
based on?"

Gil-galad considered attempting to dispel the gloom and bring some
warmth into the room by lighting the lamp, but chose instead to stay
seated and do nothing that might interrupt the flow of words.  This
angry intensity revealed an unfamiliar side to Glorfindel, and he
wanted to do nothing that might interrupt the flow of words.  It was
intriguing, however, to find that, when roused, Glorfindel expressed
his views completely without restraint.

"If you want to explain, I'm listening," he said quietly.

The even tone, perfected during numerous military councils as a means
to gain attention and calm heated tempers, made Glorfindel pause to
take breath. The blonde gave the offer consideration, then nodded
slowly and finally turned back to face the room. The light from the
window outlined his body and his shining hair, but left his face half
shadowed. Even so, Gil-galad could see the change. Glorfindel's
customary openness had been replaced by tension and a brooding sadness

"The first time I saw dead Elves was at Alqualondë, by firelight." He
stopped, frowning, following some private train of thought.  "Did you
know there were fires?" he asked, his eyes seeking out Gil-galad's.

Gil met his gaze and shook his head; this feature of the Kinslaying
was unknown to him. When he merged the words `fire' and `Alqualondë `,
the picture created for him was of the ships burning on the far shore.

Glorfindel nodded again, half to himself.

"I suppose lamps were knocked over, torches dropped. There was house
to house fighting down near the harbour," he said, his voice softer,
anger giving place for a time to memory. He started to prowl the
dusk-filled room. "There were little fires everywhere when we arrived.
What I remember are the sounds of fire crackling and of sobbing. Many
of the dead were still lying where they had fallen. Their kin had no
idea what to do with their bodies. The Quendi had no experience of
death."

Gil studied his wine as he listened. He seldom, if ever, thought of
Glorfindel as one of the remaining Exiles from the time of the Oath,
which, of course, he was. For the first time since they had met he
sensed, behind Glorfindel's sweetness, the age and memories of one of
Turgon's most valued war leaders.  The soft voice continued.

"We got used to the idea of death after that, of course. The Helcaraxë
was a swift teacher. I lost my mother to the Ice. It opened at her
feet.  One moment she was there, the next, not."

Glorfindel shook himself and crossed the room briskly, as though in
retreat from the memory, to where Gil sat. He retrieved his wine and
drank before continuing.

"That was how I learned about death. War came later. After the
Crossing there was always fighting, always some enemy, some threat.
After the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, I knew I had seen enough. I commanded
Turgon's rearguard, Gil, and I saw what we left behind us; bodies
beyond count, death and horror. We who survived went back into the
Hidden City and closed the gates behind us. We never rode out to war
again."

He stared, unseeing, down at the chessboard which displayed a game in
progress. They had just discovered they were well-matched opponents,
one being as easily distracted from the intricacies of the game as the
other. He smiled without humour.

"War came to us instead. We practiced and prepared for over four
hundred years in case we had to ride out again, and war came to us.
And we weren't ready. And yes," Glorfindel looked up sharply, a trace
of his earlier heat returning. "I killed a Balrog. People forget a
small point about that. When I killed it, I went down into the dark in
its company."

He picked up one of the crystal pieces, turning it round and round
between his fingers, and then said with finality, "No one should be
asked to remember his own death. I do.  I can describe every moment,
every thought."

They silently contemplated this, giving the horror the respect it was
due, then Glorfindel came and sank down cross-legged on the rug in
front of Gil. He gave him a level stare and said,

"My experience is of horror and defeat and death. I would not appoint
someone with that background, nor would I feel safe serving under him.
You need a commander who still believes, Gil. Someone like yourself,
young enough not to remember The Tears. Someone," he concluded, "who
was not in Gondolin at the end."

Gil-galad drew a breath, followed by another sip of his wine, waiting
to make sure Glorfindel was finished speaking.

"I'm sorry you doubted my motives," he said, choosing his words
carefully. "It surprises me that you think I would give anyone a
senior position based on the fact that we share a bed. It's hardly my
way. I badly need someone to take command of the army - I have more
than enough work as things are without seeing to that as well on a
day-to-day basis. Círdan and I both thought you the best choice. Why
not at least consider the idea?"

Deep blue eyes, the colour of a summer sky, regarded him through the
gloom. The blonde warrior looked down at his hands and said
expressionlessly, "I suppose it would be easier for you, having your
lover doing this.  It would make things simpler. You could oversee
matters without having to worry about the details."

Glorfindel listening to his own voice speaking as though from a
distance. He felt as far from Gil at that moment as though he had been
returned to the Halls of Waiting while they spoke.  He turned away to
face the unlit fireplace, continuing to toy with the chess piece.

He knew that, as usual, he had expressed himself badly, had failed to
clarify his bone-deep resistance to the idea of sending another Elf
out to fight and die anywhere for any reason. Glorfindel`s lesson on
the priceless value of life had been a hard one, never to be
forgotten, and it would forever colour his view of war. It was not
something most people with a warrior background would understand and
he was a little surprised that Gil-galad had even tried.

He was about to make one final attempt to explain his feelings when,
without warning, he found himself enveloped from behind in a hug, and
a voice close to his ear said,

"I would never, never try to force you into something you felt was
wrong for you. I had no idea you felt this way, which is a bad excuse,
of course, because I should have asked. But if not this, then what? I
can see how much you need to have some kind of responsibility to fill
your day. This has gone on for long enough."

Glorfindel turned around and, letting his head drop against a broad
shoulder, leaned into the hug, feeling the steady hand stroking his
back, the strength in the arms around him. Anger and frustration and
sadness drew back before the warmth and genuine concern that was
Gil-galad.

"I'm a good swordsman," he said slowly, firmly banishing all thoughts
of Ecthelion. "It's a skill I think I'd like to teach. It would give
me reason and chance to spend more time with your warriors, and it
would show them I have something of value to offer."

He stole a look up at Gil, who was watching him with a carefully
expressionless face and, with a soft laugh, shoved the King lightly.

"It just involves demonstrating attack and defense, and talking about
it a little.  Strange I suppose, but if I have to explain how to do
something, and answer questions about it, I quite enjoy myself. It's
just - making small talk. I have no skill for that."

Gil turned so that they could lean together comfortably. "You're
getting better at it all the time," he said firmly. "And if teaching
is what you want to do, it will be easy enough to arrange "

He bent his head slightly, nudging Glorfindel's face with his chin in
an effort to persuade him to look up, and then kissed him, closed
mouth to begin with, but slowly teasing at his lips until eventually
Glorfindel let go of the last of his annoyance and, turning his head,
responded. It was a slow, very sweet kiss, with the promise of later.

At the end, Gil-galad, with his usual, incorrigibly, irreverent sense
of humour, drew back slightly and murmured in Glorfindel's ear,

"If you want to attract large numbers of students, all we need to do
is offer the lessons under the title of Basic Balrog-Slaying."

-------------

"Is he still out there?" Elros asked, craning his neck back in an
effort to see out the window without getting up. Elrond was curled up
in a chair across the room with Laslech lying at his feet. She was
watching Elros carefully while he ate as on occasion he had been known
to drop delicacies where she could find them. Cheese was a firm
favourite, as were apple cores.

Unlike his twin, Elrond had a clear view across the garden, including
the sheltered corner where a black-haired Elf was bending and twisting
with sinuous movements that stopped just short of dance. Elrond had
given up all pretence of not watching; he was hardly likely to be able
to convince Elros of his lack of interest. His brother always knew
what he was thinking.

Erestor had arrived, as agreed, every morning just after sunrise and
each evening around sunset. He was invariably dressed as he had been
the night Elrond had first offered him the use of their private
garden, and he carried himself in a manner that suggested he was at
ease there. His body language said very clearly, however, that he had
nothing to discuss with the inhabitants of the nearby suite of rooms.

Elros got up and came over to where his twin sat, and leaned against
the chair while eating the remains of a pastry. "What, exactly, did
you say to him to make him work so hard at ignoring you?" he asked,
his tone reflecting long experience.

Elrond tilted his head to look up. "Nothing much?" he suggested
hopefully. Elros had left the subject of Erestor alone for the first
few days, but was now taking an interest. This, in Elrond's
experience, did not bode well. It usually involved questions, advice,
sometimes even personal intervention.

It crossed Elrond's mind that this unsolicited involvement in his
often complicated life was about to become a matter of history, but he
pushed the thought aside firmly. Elros, possibly thinking the same
thing, rested a hand on the back of his brother's head and pushed, not
very gently, but with great affection.

"In case it escaped your attention, he is doing a wonderful job of
ignoring you while making certain you can see him," he chuckled. "How
bad could it have been, anyway? He obviously wants you to go out and
talk to him."

Elrond gave his brother a jaundiced look from the side of his eye. "I
very much doubt that," he said firmly. "He was pleasant to me, and I
was.well, it was a bad day and I took it out on him, I suppose. At
least, that's how he saw it. I don't think talking to me is something
he wants to repeat. No, this is just a convenient place to exercise."

Elros considered the Elf in the garden. He had a mind to go out and
speak to him, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. "Don't you dare,"
Elrond said softly. "I hardly know him - how would it seem, my brother
goes to make peace for me with an almost total stranger? I would look
a complete fool."

"A stranger who makes use of our garden twice daily at your
invitation?" Elros asked lightly. However, he knew the tone.  Elrond
wanted things left alone.  For a change, this apparently had less to
do with stubbornness or a misguided sense of pride than with an
awareness of having done something wrong.

Elros wondered, not for the first time, but with increased anxiety,
how his brother was going to cope on his own. Elrond was useless when
it came to things like discretion and diplomacy. Well, he was just
going to have to learn. Elros sighed and gave one more push to the
back of the dark head, so like his own, yet so unlike.

"I think that if you caused discomfort between yourself and someone
else, it should be you who tries to make amends," he suggested,
straightening up and tidying his hair back. "I would also think it a
good idea not to leave it too long." He jerked his head in the general
direction of the garden. "Someone with those looks has no need to
spend too long waiting on your change of mood. He'll soon find some
one else to entertain him."

He turned to leave, surrogate parenting complete for the morning, to
be stopped by Elrond asking hesitantly, "Are you busy all day today?"
He was leaning down to play with Laslech's ears, his face hidden
behind his dark curtain of loose hair.

"I might have time for dinner tonight," Elros replied, only half
joking. "I have meetings, maps to study, a lecture from Círdan on the
importance of maintaining a strong fleet or some such topic." He
stopped and looked at his brother. "Is something wrong? Did we have
plans, was there something you needed?"

Elrond shook his head. "No plans, no. And nothing I needed. Just
asking, really. Showing an interest," he finished, looking up and
smiling convincingly. Elros studied him carefully for a moment, but he
had no time for more questions. Giving his twin a final searching
look, he left. 

Elrond turned back to the window. He was in time to see Erestor begin
his final sequence, the one that involved a back bend that made
Elrond's mouth go dry. He paused, then dropped his glance to Laslech,
who was busy trying to chew the end off her tail. She was still not
quite reconciled to the idea that it belonged to her.  He took a very
deep breath and got up, stretching cat-like and shaking back his
troublesome hair.

"Come on, girl. Let's go outside," he said with a sigh. "What's the
worst that can happen, anyway?"

----------

Erestor heard the door open and carefully kept his eyes focused on a
point well away both from both the patio and the informal path leading
back to the public areas. During his twice daily visits to this
private comer of the Palace gardens, he had been very careful to show
no curiosity about the whereabouts of the young Princeling whose sharp
tongue and imperious attitude had startled and.disappointed him more
than he would have expected.

The desire to keep a distance between them was obviously mutual;
Erestor had been left very much to his own devices.

He was balanced on one leg, his weight on the ball of the foot, his
arms stretched gracefully up and back, when he was struck just below
the knee by a small, solid, and highly excited body. He hit the ground
in a confusion of limbs and hair and for a moment lay motionless, with
his eyes closed. His first coherent thought was of how ridiculous he
probably looked.

The perpetrator of this disaster was standing behind him, her front
paws on his shoulder and her back paws tangled in his hair,
ecstatically licking his face. Erestor turned onto his stomach, gently
urged the dog onto the ground, and rolled to sit up. He was busy
pushing the heavy black hair out of his face before he finally looked
up, only to find Elrond standing in front of him, an expression of
genuine horror on his face.

They stared at one another and then, unable to help himself, Erestor
started to laugh. What most struck him as funny was that this was the
second time Laslech had instigated an unlikely, and potentially
uncomfortable, meeting between them. Elrond gave him an uncertain
look, then bent to pick up his offending pet, who gave a yelp of alarm
at being handled almost roughly. Erestor leaned back on his arms and
trying to restrain his laughter, protested,

"No, no, let her be. I was probably too good a target to ignore."  He
met Elrond's eye, his own sparkling with mirth. "Put her down, she was
busy trying to apologise." He heard himself and caught back the
laughter, realising his comment could easily be thought to contain a
reference to prior events.

Elrond quirked an elegant brow, and set Laslech down again before
reaching out a hand in assistance.

"Unlike me?" he suggested.

Erestor took the proffered hand and moved gracefully to his feet, and
found himself a little closer to his helper than planned. Their eyes
met more seriously.

"I was coming to say I was sorry for my lack of manners," Elrond
admitted, finding it surprisingly easy to acknowledge fault once he
made up his mind to it. "You were right - my temper was better aimed
elsewhere. A bad morning is no excuse, I realise, but." He paused, bit
his lip lightly, shrugged. "I apologise. Elros is right, I just don't
seem to know when to stop sometimes."

Erestor had stepped back, giving them both the security of a little
more space. He found it disconcerting to be quite so close to the
King's cousin. Elrond was wearing leggings and a light, sleeveless
tunic, and his unbound hair danced loose about his face and shoulders
in the light breeze. He smelt, faintly and unexpectedly, of violets.
Erestor tried to stop wondering whether the scent emanated from the
Half-elf's hair or his skin, and to stop picturing the more obvious
ways to determine this.

He ventured a smile.

"I was late and harassed and took it more to heart than was called
for," he said in return, frowning unconsciously as he automatically
started to tidy his hair, pulling it back and fastening the side
braids behind his head to keep it all in place.  Elrond stepped behind
him, unasked, and their fingers met over the simple tortoiseshell
clasp.

For a moment, Erestor's entire awareness was centered on that touch,
then his hair was fastened and Elrond was stepping back from him. He
turned, their eyes met, and the air between them became alive, almost
tangible, pulsing with expectation. Erestor was about to speak, to
offer whatever random words happened to find their way onto his
tongue, when the bell heralding the third hour from dawn - the hour
when work officially began - started chiming. Life's realities
reasserted themselves. Giving the Half-elf a wry smile he said,

"Well, I am now officially late, my Lord, so, if you will excuse
me."

"Elrond," the Half-elf said quietly. Erestor shot him an enquiring
glance. "I mean, my name's Elrond," he explained, his eyes and body
language showing just a fraction of uncertainty. "Please don't call me
`my Lord'. That's only for formal occasions, and even then . I don't
know that I've ever really grown comfortable with it"

"Elrond, then," Erestor responded with a smile, meeting the grey eyes.

Elrond bit his lip, a quick flash of tooth that sent a thrill of
desire through Erestor, and said, with a small, unsure movement of his
hands, "I'll see you later, perhaps?"

Erestor, his thoughts racing, nodded. The interest in the storm grey
eyes matched his own, but the situation argued against light
dalliance.  It was a well-known fact that Gil-galad was very fond of
his two young peredhil cousins. Erestor, however, had spent most of
his life living dangerously.

"Tonight," he said, with a smile of irresistible charm. "I'll be back
tonight."

----------

Dressed in something more suitable for public view  -  and there was
nothing wrong with yellow silk really, if one had the colouring for it
- Elrond took Laslech for her long anticipated walk, following their
usual route through the grounds.

Talking to Erector had been a good antidote to his earlier, rather
somber mood. They had said little of any substance to one another, in
fact Elrond could barely remember more than ten words of the exchange;
the smile, though, lingered in his thoughts. That smile, Elrond
thought, coupled with those sparkling, jewel eyes, might conceivably
have the power to melt rock.

Laslech, having spotted a friend, was currently doing everything in
her power to get her companion's attention and encourage him in the
right direction. Her objective was sitting under a tree, his back to
the trunk, looking for all the world like a wood Elf.  Elrond let her
run loose, and smiled as she charged over and flung herself on
Glorfindel, about whom she was passionate.

He followed her with a little more dignity, halting to look down at
Glorfindel, who was rolling the puppy over onto her back and rubbing
her stomach.

"You spoil her," Elrond said disapprovingly. "She needs to learn to be
more restrained with people. Elros won't want her carrying on like this."

He was unaware of the way he compressed his lips at the end of this
sentence, as he pushed back the thought of the dog and his brother
boarding the ship, crossing the sea, irrevocably gone. Glorfindel saw
the look, made an intuitive guess as to the cause, but kept silent.

Elrond surveyed him, curiosity in his sea grey eyes.

"Nothing better to do at this hour of the day than sit out here under
a tree and think?" he asked casually. He had known something was wrong
from the moment he saw the golden haired form sitting still and
pensive at an hour that would normally have found him searching for
ways to occupy his time.

Glorfindel gave him a curious look. He was far from clear as to why or
when confiding in Elrond had become a natural process. He had shared
very little of his thoughts or fears with his few previous friends or
acquaintances, yet he found he was strangely comfortable with the
situation.

"Gil-galad and Círdan had the idea of giving me command of the army,"
he said. "It was hard to get Gil to see what a really bad idea that
is, and I doubt that he's managed to persuade Círdan yet."

Elrond, who had first-hand experience concerning Cirdan's
inflexibility, grinned.  Glorfindel, who had known there was no need
to explain his feelings about war and death to Elrond, who seemed to
understand such things almost instinctively anyway, returned the smile
wryly, then closed his eyes.

"I was sitting out here wondering, for the hundredth time, what the
Valar wanted from me when they sent me back, and how I will know it.
It was easy enough to turn down Gil's offer.  I doubt they would send
me back to do something I was hardly successful at originally - I
fought in some memorable disasters, after all. It reminded me, though,
of how easy it would be to say no to something,, not
realising..."

He sighed softly and glanced sideways at Elrond. "I know it must be
something fairly obvious. After all, it would hardly be fair otherwise."

Elrond had been listening to him with one eyebrow slightly raised and
a strange expression on his face. As Glorfindel's words trailed off,
he gave a small snort.

"And you, naturally, expect the Valar to treat you fairly and with
justice, don't you?" he asked sardonically.

Glorfindel shot him a startled look, and saw that his companion was
completely serious. "Elrond, hush, you can't speak so of the Shining
Ones," he said quickly, respect instilled in him since childhood
making itself known.

He received an almost patronizing smile from Elrond, who shook his
head, then settled down properly on the grass, his legs crossed,
elbows on knees, and chin resting on linked hands.

"The Valar are neither fair nor just, my friend," the young Half-elf
said quietly. "They have their plans and designs, and we are nothing
to them, only pawns on their gaming board. They move us where they
will; there is no choice, there is no justice. Just their will and
their amusement." He smiled at the older Elf's look of horror. "You
don't believe me, do you?" he asked, softly. "Listen, then, and I will
tell you all about the fairness and justice of the Valar."

Chapter 10

"Because he doesn't feel it's the right choice for him," Gil-galad
repeated for the fifth time. He had somehow managed to keep his
voice calm and neutral throughout the conversation, but he was
beginning to do some serious teeth-clenching. The one person
he would consider to be more stubborn than Glorfindel was Círdan,
and he was currently having this opinion reinforced by the silver-
haired Elf.

They were in the large office Gil-galad referred to as his workroom,
the scene of many similar discussions, all of which had ended with
Cirdan's viewpoint prevailing. This meant that, for the Teleri,
the probability of his opinion being disregarded was somewhat less
than unlikely. Tea had been brought in upon his arrival and he was
currently sitting with a large cup in his hand while his fosterling
paced the room. He sighed to himself and prepared to explain yet
again. This matter was far too important to leave unresolved.

"Ereinion, consider please," he said firmly. "The Valar are not
fools. They would not do anything so unusual - nay, so unheard-of -
as sending one of our kind back in this manner without a solid
reason. I cannot be brought to believe that this purpose would
merely involve passing on the sword skills of Gondolin, interesting
though I do not doubt that study to be."

Gil-galad had reached the end of the room and was looking out of the
window in the general direction of the stables. Something appeared
to have caught his attention, but he soon turned back resignedly.

"If he's determined he doesn't want the position, I can hardly
insist that he accepts it, Hirem. What is wrong with letting him do
something he feels comfortable with while he settles in? Especially
if it gives him an opportunity to start mingling with the warriors
without the pressure of leadership."

Cirdan shook his head in disbelief. "Ereinion, you are the King.
If you insist upon something, it must be done. We have discussed
this before."

He had lost no opportunity to discuss it, Gil thought wryly. He
rarely contradicted his foster father. This was partly due to a
reluctance born out of respect but also, partly, because it was
seldom that they disagreed on a course of action. True, they were
often motivated by different reasons, but Cirdan had raised him
after his father's death and Gil was content to appear to give
way in a discussion, when in fact he had simply seen an aspect that
had originally been overlooked. If Círdan took this to mean his view
had prevailed Gil was prepared to let him believe so.

This practice, which had started as a courtesy born of a warm, open
nature and a desire to make sure Cirdan continued to feel important
in his life, was slowly becoming problematic. He had known for some
time that it needed to be addressed, but had previously lacked
incentive. Glorfindel, he realised with something like surprise,
provided a motive more than sufficient to make him dig in his heels
and insist.

Gil returned to his seat, ignoring the tea that had been poured for
him. He would have preferred a glass of good, strong dwarf brandy,
but mid morning was hardly the time for that particular indulgence,
never mind how much his backbone needed stiffening. Mentally he took
a breath.

"When you raised me, Hirem, there were two things which you paid
particular attention to as I recall it. Accepting responsibility and
making decisions." He turned and met his foster father's eyes, "In
this instance I have decided that Glorfindel should choose his own
path, and I take responsibility for any consequences. I believe that
whatever the Valar have in mind will happen without me trying to
second-guess them."

Círdan opened his mouth, glanced at Gil-galad's set face, and
was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Ereinion, he had
noticed, tended to be altogether stubborn and non-communicative when
the subject of Glorfindel arose.

"Ereinion, if you have conceived a personal dislike for this gift
from the Valar, or have concerns relating to the amount of time he
appears to spend with your impressionable cousin, then I fear you
are simply going to have to rise above them. If this is behind your
reluctance to insist on his involvement with the army."

Gil-galad took a deep breath, and considered his options.
Eventually, knowing from past experience that once Círdan had an
idea in his head it not only lodged, but swiftly became immobile, he
sighed and admitted defeat.

"Hirem, sit down. There's something I think I had better tell
you."

----------

Elrond sat in silence for a few minutes, looking down while he
smoothed his fingers back and forth over the grass as though
considering its texture. Glorfindel took advantage of the lull in
their conversation to stretch out on his side, propping himself on
one elbow. The normal morning sounds of life in the Palace complex
continued as usual, but somehow failed to intrude on the tree shaded
area en route to the stables.

"This happened after we joined Ereinion, only days after Maedhros
handed us over to him," Elrond said eventually, breaking his
silence. He glanced at Glorfindel. "I may as well tell you about
that, too. Ereinion is one of your favorite subjects, after all.
Don't blush, you know he is. And if he isn't, then you need
to question the way you spend your evenings."

Glorfindel gave him a dark look, though biting back a smile, and
returned his attention to the puppy. There was a story here that
would be told in its own time and not before. Elrond gave the smile
a satisfied look and nodded.

"Everything changed after the time they're calling the War of
Wrath, when the Powers came out of the West, and the earth moved and
shook and the sky was darkened. Eventually Maglor feared for our
safety and hid us inland. At the end, we were sent to the High King,
who happened to be our closest kinsman left this side of the Sea."
Elrond, sitting cross-legged, his back very straight, spoke quietly.
His eyes were fixed on some distant point, and his usually mobile
face was empty of expression.

"We were sent to our new guardian under cover of night, not with
Maglor, who had always taken care of us, but with Caradur, a Sinda
Maedhros had befriended and who stayed on past the end, unlike most.
He never liked us much. Maglor told us in parting that he would
receive a warmer welcome from the High King than he felt ready for,
but that he would see us later, when matters were more settled."

He smiled wryly. "You would have liked Maglor, Glori. Ever the
optimist. I knew there would be no `later', but why shatter
his illusions? Things went quietly enough till we were close to the
King's camp, then Caradur insisted that we announce ourselves in
style and ordered Elros to raise and carry Maedhros' banner. And
he refused. He usually did as he was told - I was the one who said
no and was beaten - but this time..this time he told Caradur to see
to it himself." He paused, his expression reflecting the respect he
had felt for his quiet, cooperative brother that day.

Glorfindel, who had recently learnt the horror of how Elrond and
Elros came to be raised by the Sons of Fëanor nodded agreement The
attack on their home had been carried out beneath that same banner,
on the night the Haven burned and Dior's daughter had sought
death, whilst her children were captured and carried off mere hours
ahead of aid. Elwing's son had been right to refuse.

Elrond shrugged slightly, as though casting off memory.

"It was almost midnight when we finally arrived. There was no
moon, and all we found to begin with was an open space and a few
fires, in fact it looked like no major campsite I had ever seen
before. These were Elves who had come out of the West and chosen to
fight alongside the High King's army I remember most that they had
no tents, and they lit no watch fires. It may have been lack of need
or just not their practice, no one seemed to know. Once we were
pointed in the right direction, though, the King's encampment was
easy to find."

He grinned slightly. "You'll understand why when you've
known him longer. There were guards set about, and everything was
well lit, orderly. That's his way; he'll wander out in dead of night
to make sure they're awake on watch or that the fires are built up
properly. He's been a soldier most of his life, he's a good
commander."

Laslech chose this moment to get up from where she had been lying to
amble over and collapse next to Elrond, rolling easily against him.
Glorfindel had no idea why anyone thought this was Elros' dog.
The animal had decided from the beginning where her world was
centered. Elrond rested a hand lightly on her back, and continued
talking.

"We were taken straight to his tent. You couldn't mistake it,
there was an armed guard at the entrance because, saviours from the
West or not, there were strangers in the camp. We had spent so much
time being hidden from him, being dragged away at speed from
anywhere he might be, that I had half forgotten it was because he
meant to rescue us, and I can remember feeling nervous. And tired,
really tired."

Elrond drew his knees up, wrapping his arms round his legs, and his
eyes grew more distant with memory.

"We went in and a tall Elf was sitting on a chest, polishing a
knife. I thought he was probably younger than he looked, and that he
also seemed tired. His hair was in two simple braids down the front,
and he had the bluest eyes I'd ever seen in my life. He sat
looking at us for a while, then he nodded and said, `Skinny. We'll
have to feed you up a bit.' And then he smiled, Glori, and it felt
as if we belonged there."

The feeling so clearly mirrored his own on first meeting Gil-galad
that Glorfindel actually blinked, before nodding and smiling at the
memory.

"He's always like that, isn't he?" he said. "He knows how to make
situations feel comfortable."

Elrond raised both brows in surprise. "He was sent to the
relative safety that could be found with Círdan when he was very
young, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad he became an orphaned
dependant with no home to return to and no close kin to speak for
his safety, surrounded by Elves who looked down on Noldor ambitions .
surely he told you about it?"

Well, no, Glorfindel thought. We seem to focus mainly on my
troubles, don't we? Aloud he said, "We're still busy
getting to know one another, Elrond. Confidences take time. Anyway,
I'm curious. What does all this have to do with the Valar?"

Elrond, who had been trying to decide if he would get away with
asking what Glorfindel and Ereinion discussed, or if they actually
talked at all, came back to the thread of his story immediately. His
face closed and he dropped his eyes. He rested his hand on
Laslech's head and starting to finger her silky ear.

"Not that night," he said. "The following week."

----------

They had been given a place to sleep in the corner of a storage
tent, as well as furs and a couple of blankets to wrap themselves
in, a jug of water and two plates containing what they assumed to be
leftovers from the evening meal. Their belongings were already
stacked neatly in the corner. Gil-galad, who had come personally to
see them settled, had looked around with a rueful expression.
"It's a bit rough, I know, and unwelcoming, but I wasn't expecting
you so soon and we weren't prepared. Tomorrow I'll see to it that
you have a few basic comforts."

The brothers had exchanged glances. They had slept in worse
accommodation on a regular basis. Elrond, however, established his
reputation immediately by asking, "Will we qualify to sleep in
beds instead of on the floor?"

Elros kicked him but it was too late, as usual. Gil-galad frowned
slightly at the slender, defiant-looking young Half-elf.
Deliberately provocative, his instincts told him. Well, he had been
through enough to have earned the right to a little provocation.

"You'll have beds tomorrow," he said evenly, a tone
which, had he known, was to become a regular feature in his dealings
with this cousin. "I have no intention of rousing two of my warriors
to tell them they can spend the rest of the night on the ground.
We've had a long week, they need their rest. I said I'll see to this
in the morning, and I will. For tonight, make do as best you can."

-----------

They were on the road for a week. True to his word, the following
day the King made certain that his cousins, the children of
Eärendil, with their heritage as princes of both Gondolin and
Doriath, were given their own tent and decent horses. Everything was
quite basic, including the food. This was an army on the move at the
end of a bitter campaign, not a pleasure trip, as Gil-galad pointed
out to them.

At the end of the week they came to a predetermined spot on the
seashore, set up camp and waited. They were divided, as always, into
two groups - those who followed the High King, and those newly
arrived from the West, whose sojourn on the Hither Shore was set to
be brief. There was little, if any, interaction between the two;
they marched together, but that was the sum total of their sense of
kindred.

From early the following morning, Elves began to arrive. They
gathered in small groups, and either erected tents, or else settled
under the open sky in a manner more conducive to the Elven desire to
be at one with nature. They waited beside the sea; tents and banners
as far as could be seen, proud and bright against the sky. Lords
from across the Sea, waiting to leave, alongside Lords living in
exile, waiting to hear their fate; whether or not they could return
home.

The twins had kept to their tent, at the request of their cousin the
King. The weather was inclement, there was nowhere to go, it was no
hardship to obey. Mid afternoon they heard the sound of silvery
trumpets and looked outside, but whatever was happening was hidden
from their view. Several hours later, though, one of the King's
senior commanders came to them and told them to make ready to be
presented to one of the Mighty.

A short time later, dressed in their best - in other words their
cleanest - tunics and leggings, and wearing the cloaks Gil-galad
had found for them as soon as he saw the lamentable state of their
cold weather clothing, they made their way to the edge of the camp
as instructed. Unexpectedly, they were met by their cousin himself,
and two of the quiet Elves from Valinor. Gil-galad looked the twins
up and down quickly.

"Elrond, what is wrong with your hair? Why does it never look
tidy?" he muttered, hurriedly trying to tuck wandering strands
behind elegant, if slightly rounded ears. Admitting defeat, he
glanced from the corner of his eye to their two companions and then,
in very quick Sindarin, he said, "Don't be alarmed by this.
Eönwë the Herald sent for you. He probably just wants to take a look
at Eärendil's sons, have a discussion about your future, nothing to
be concerned about."

The fact that the High King himself looked anything but unconcerned
was small comfort to them, either then or a scant half hour later
when they were left at the entrance to a pavilion of some kind, set
near the water's edge, slightly away from all others.

The structure consisted of a frame of sorts, hung with some fine,
shimmering fabric of a type unknown to them, which eddied and
swirled softly in the wind, undefined colours rippling and shifting
unsettlingly. The sand around it lay flat and calm, as though
untouched by the wind, and there was an air of strangeness about it
all that made Elrond, the more sensitive to atmosphere, shiver.
Elros rested a reassuring hand lightly on his arm as the drapes
parted before them and a tall, very slender, light-haired being
gestured them forwards.

Afterwards they had disagreed about many of the details: the
clothing worn by the Herald, the décor of the interior of his
pavilion - Elrond always maintained there were plants growing in
pots and placed at intervals around the perimeter, while Elros
maintained to his dying day that they grew unfettered in the sand
and looked as though they had been there for years. The ground
beneath their feet was patterned and coloured, giving the appearance
of a mosaic, though still having the consistency of sand, and two
globe-shaped lamps hung down from the frame on threads as fine as
silk, casting a soft silvery glow, closely akin to moonlight.

The being - for he seemed in some indefinable way far more than
an Elf - appeared to study them for a time and then sank gracefully
onto a cushion, gesturing them to sit as well. The lamplight turned
his pale hair to a shade close to silver, and caused his violet eyes
to glitter strangely. He smiled, and it was not a comforting sight,
infused as it was by no true warmth.

"Children of the Mariner," he said softly, and his voice
whispered and echoed with a faint, strange accent. "Bearers of the
blood of both First and Second born, descendants of Melian. A choice
I am given to lay before you. It has been decided, for your father's
sake, that to you alone of those termed Peredhil will it be given to
choose the kindred amongst which you will be numbered. Know that all
choices are good, and all choices will be binding from now until the
Breaking of the World."

There was no sound save the murmur of the sea inside this pavilion,
where they sat amongst the unnaturally blooming flowers, and even
the waves seemed to have drawn back to a distance, the sound coming
faintly through the strange, swirling drapes. The Herald sat
surveying them, his face expressionless, resembling something carved
from marble.

"You may choose, of course, as your hearts dictate. None shall
presume to sway your choices. However," he continued, studying
their faces, "I offer you these words in guidance. If you choose to
follow one and the same path, then the eventual fate of Middle-
earth, as you call it, is hidden in shadow and sorrow even from the
eyes of the Lords of the West."

He paused to give his words weight, and now even the sea appeared to
have stilled. The strange, silvery lamps continued their
unflickering glow, the wind still skittered around about, moving not
so much as a single grain of sand from the coloured mosaic that
surrounded them. After giving them time to digest his meaning, he
continued.

"Should you display the courage and will of your father, and
should you choose separately, one to be a Lord of respect and
standing amongst the Firstborn, the other to be a King amongst Men,
first ruler of a land the Valar, even now, are setting aside for the
use of those of the Secondborn who have kept faith, this result would
see the ones you name Valar most satisfied. Out of this choice, and
this alone, do they see a sweet, final harvest for those who remain
on this Hither Shore."

"Separately?" Elros' voice was little more than a
whisper. They had been together since before birth, shared the
fears, horrors and small triumphs of their harrowing and unusual
life, the thought of being separated.

"One, an Elven lord of respect and renown, the other a King whose
name will live down the ages of Men and Elves both. Your separation
would be a small price for the promise of a final dawning of peace
at the end of the labours of both your people."

"How long do we have to decide?" Elrond asked bluntly, and
Elros felt a rush of love for his brother and his habit of
confronting things head on rather than attempting a more subtle
approach.

"There is no time to spare for this," the Herald replied
inflexibly. "You must decide now."

They looked at one another in silence, the horror of the choice
being asked of them creeping up on them slowly like the incoming
tide. Elros found he was holding his brother's hand tightly, and
loosened his grip a little. They communicated by facial expression
alone, as they had learned to do in the time since they had been
taken from their home by those who had come with fire and sword and
changed their world.

"We have never been apart. How dare you ask this of us?"
Elrond asked finally, driven by the edge of fear he was seeing in
Elros' eyes. He had never sounded less certain about being defiant.
There was a coolness within this strange pavilion that was slowly
chilling his blood. All he wanted to do was to get this over and
done with and leave. He was far from certain how much he trusted
their newly encountered cousin the King, but Ereinion Gil-galad, for
his many faults, would never look at them with this air of cold
implacability.

"The choice must be taken," the Herald said firmly.
"There is little time left, and this is all I will have to spare for
you. You may choose to remain together, and disregard the needs of
future generations; that is your right. But, whatever your decision,
it must be made now."

"We need to talk to someone - we can't decide this
without guidance." Elros let his voice trail off. In truth, no one
would be able to help them pick the best road. This nightmare was
theirs alone. He glanced at Elrond, who at that moment looked very
much younger than their years. He was starting to be afraid, and it
was showing. Elros hated it. His usually insanely self-confident
brother never showed fear, even when he had pushed Maedhros past
endurance, past the rescue of Maglor's interceding voice. He took a
deep breath.

"So, you are telling us to decide today in favour of a future
that one of us will definitely never live to see?" he asked quietly.
The silvery head nodded wordlessly. Elros considered the Herald,
then looked thoughtfully at his brother. Elrond was the one who
carried traces of their foremother Melian, not him. Elrond had
feelings that were more than intuition, sight that looked through
deception as though reading an open scroll, and a voice filled with
enchantment.

Elros had other strengths: calmness, thoroughness, a sense of duty
and responsibility. He loved his brother dearly, but his mind found
it difficult to entertain the idea of Elrond as a King. A great Elf
lord someday, perhaps, but a Mortal King? He shook his head, an
unconscious smile of affectionate denial on his lips.

"We have to do this," he said softly to his twin, meeting
wide grey eyes with his own, calmer stare. "And we have to do it
properly. And we can't be selfish about it. If you would rather, I
will choose for us."

".but this isn't right." Elrond began, but he was
quietly interrupted by his brother.

"We are in no position to judge if it is right or not, my
brother. All we know is the preference of the Valar. I think we have
to carry out their wishes. And, knowing me, knowing you, I think it
would be best if I took the path of our Secondborn kin, while you
remain within the shelter of Elvenkind." Elrond made a gesture, but
then dropped his hand and simply sat staring at his brother with
disbelieving eyes, shaking his head slightly in denial. "I think
you have the possible makings of an Elf lord one day," Elros
explained gently, with a sweet, sad smile, "and that I will make a
far more likely King than you."

----------

"And that was it?" Glorfindel asked sitting up, outraged. "But that
was no choice at all. That was..."

Elrond nodded, quite calmly. "A `choice' handed to us when we were
barely of age, and amongst strangers. There was no one we could turn
to for advice. Had Maglor been there we would have gone to him, but
he and Maedhros were busy plotting the theft of the Silmarils, and
we had only known Ereinion for a week. In your words, no choice at
all. We just fell back on the habits of a lifetime; Elros always
tries to do the right thing, I always used to follow his lead."

"But what did Gil say when you told him? Surely." Glorfindel
was finding it difficult to drag out the appropriate words for this.
Elrond's matter-of-fact description of the Herald, his pavilion,
the way the options were put to them, had chilled him with its
quiet, implied horror.

Elrond shook his head. "We never told Ereinion. At the time he
was still an unknown, and before we left we were told to hold our
peace, let the matter stay between us and the Valar. Later, it was
just better left unsaid. He would have felt guilty for not going
along to support us. As it was, we just told him and Círdan that
this was how we had chosen, for our own good reasons. You're the
first to know otherwise."

He looked up at Glorfindel as he said this, his face younger than
its years, very uncertain, but with a hint of stubbornness to the
line of his mouth.

"I only told you because you needed to be warned. You were so
willing to believe that their motives would be fair and good and
right. I had to show you that sometimes they aren't fair, and
they don't always make sense - they just maneuver their pieces as
they choose, and we must pay their price. Barring accidents, I will
live forever, or close enough. And Elros - will have a life span
longer than Men count normal, but still less than nothing as we
reckon it."

Glorfindel looked down at the hand resting on the puppy's -Elros'
puppy's - head. Elrond had drawn his fingers back to avoid hurting
her, but his knuckles were white. He was holding himself very still,
as one does when attempting to control the response to great pain.
Glorfindel reached out unthinking, to touch, to offer what comfort
he could, but Elrond wasn't there, his rising marked by a startled
yelp from Laslech.

"I've talked about this enough now," he said in a tight, controlled
voice. "It happened, it's done. I just wanted to warn you not to
trust to their guidance. Rather make your own road, let things
happen as they will."

Glorfindel, too, had risen, and they were watching one another
almost cautiously. As he looked into strangely blank grey eyes,
instinct told the blonde to talk calmly about simple things for a
few minutes, give Elrond a chance to regain his balance after
sharing this story which had been locked away inside him up until
now. However, the opportunity for this vanished instantly at the
sound of an approaching voice.

"Ah Glorfindel, a few moments of your time, perhaps? There is a
concern I would like to discuss with you. And Elrond, I hardly need
to mention that yellow silk is hardly suitable outdoor wear."

Chapter 11


Glorfindel wondered, considering the circumstances under which he and
Elrond had been interrupted, if it were possible for Cirdan's arrival
to have been more ill-timed or unwelcome. He was aware of Elrond
drawing a deep breath, which he held for several heartbeats before he
released it. He could see Gil-galad behind Círdan, attempting to
appear to be no more than an interested observer, and resolved to
discuss that act of avoidance with him later.

Glorfindel's impulse to escape was curbed rather less by his natural
honesty - he was a terrible liar - than by his lack of any convenient
excuse for leaving.  He also hoped he could manage to distract Círdan
before Elrond decided to respond to the criticism of his clothing,
which Glorfindel suspected would have the effect of turning a lecture
into a confrontation. He therefore said quietly, "How can I help you,
my Lord?"

Círdan took his arm, and indicated that Glorfindel should walk with
him, gesturing in the general direction of the lake, a small body of
water closer in size to a large pond, which was encircled by a tidy
gravel path. Benches had been set around it at regular intervals, and
it was Círdan's opinion that it was all far too regimented, reflecting
the Noldorin love of order and control, but there was no denying that
the area was regularly frequented by much of the Palace's
population.

He was concerned at Gil-galad's revelation of the growing relationship
between him and this Elf the Valar had seen fit to return from the
dead. Kings, to his mind, needed to marry and produce heirs, not have
affairs of this nature. He intended to broach the subject later, very
carefully of course. For now, there was something else which caused
him concern and about which he also had strong feelings.

"Glorfindel, his Majesty tells me you are reluctant to accept the
position that he has offered you. I am certain that you realise he has
been looking for someone suitable to place at the head of his army for
quite some time now. I wished to make certain you had given his offer
your full consideration." He realised that Glorfindel had stopped
walking, and did so as well, although keeping a hand on the firmly
muscled arm.  "I can assure you, we would not have considered this had
we any doubts as to your ability. After all, the probability that the
Valar sent you back for just such a reason is too strong to be
denied."

Glorfindel stood listening to this monologue, which was being
delivered with all the weight of authority, age and experience that
Círdan could bring to it. He made no attempt to interrupt or respond,
knowing he was no match, verbally, for the ancient Elf. He was
normally at ease with Círdan, certainly, but the idea of trying to
argue with him was too bizarre to entertain.

He happened to be facing Gil, and took the opportunity to watch him,
something he never tired of doing. He was therefore in a position to
notice the look of discomfort on his face, and the way this hardened
into something closer to annoyance at the point where Círdan stopped
referring to `his' wishes in favour of `ours'. 

He knew Gil-galad avoided confrontations with his foster father,
claiming it was because of the love and respect he held for him.
Glorfindel, however, had spent his entire youth woefully failing to
live up to his father's expectations, and had both seen and heard
enough in the short time he had known Gil and seen him with his foster
father to have formed his own conclusions.

He was so busy studying Gil and wondering if this was the point when
he would finally contradict Círdan that he completely forgot about
Elrond, still tightly strung and sensitive after finally sharing his
memories of a frightening and life altering experience. Glorfindel was
abruptly reminded by a cool, toneless voice that cut through Círdan's
words like a knife.

"Assuming the Valar had anything in mind beyond sowing confusion,
whatever they intend might still be far in the future." 

Elrond had moved while speaking to place a light hand on Glorfindel's
free arm. He was carrying himself very erect and his face was
expressionless. "It may be something as simple as passing on his
sword skills to someone whose need of them will be vital someday. You
have no way of knowing this, my Lord, any more than I do or Ereinion
does. Glorfindel needs to follow his own instincts, and if they speak
against the position you had in mind for him, so be it. It isn't your
choice to make."

Círdan, predictably short of patience with someone young,
inexperienced, and clad in yellow silk in the middle of the day,
snapped, "Your manners are lamentable, young one. Not purely your
fault of course, but even Maglor should have known to teach you to
hold your tongue while your betters speak."

Elrond was quiet for the one moment it took him to confirm that Círdan
had just insulted the only person who had shown him kindness from the
time his mother had died until he had been placed in Gil-galad's
household. He then let his tongue pick its own words

"Indeed, my Lord. And he was also at great pains to teach me how to
determine who my betters actually are.  I would think that, as King
Turgon's great-grandson, decisions concerning one of his warriors
would be more my concern than yours."

"I think not," Gil-galad interjected, before Círdan could catch breath
to respond. "You both seem to be overlooking a small detail here. I
have been High King since Turgon's death, something I'll thank you to
remember, Elrond.  Glorfindel's future is my decision, not yours."

Glorfindel felt light and disconnected from the growing argument. The
only thing that registered clearly was Gil's annoyed declaration of
control over his life.  He shrugged loose from both Círdan and Elrond,
and turned so he could look directly at the King. His temper had
always been very slow to surface, yet Gil-galad had somehow managed to
make him really angry twice in as many days. As the target was Gil, he
was more confident in expressing this anger than he might have been
with anyone else.

"You are High King, and I owe respect to the title and its holder, and
you will never have less," he said, meeting and holding the light blue
eyes and picking his words carefully.  "But the king who received my
oath of loyalty died the day Gondolin fell. I am not property to be
disposed of as you or anyone else sees fit.  I am free to offer my
loyalty where I will, and I give it willingly to Idril's grandson." He
turned to catch Elrond's disbelieving stare and, placing left hand to
forehead, bowed the correct degree. "This Prince of Gondolin can
decide my future. I leave it in his hands."

And turning, Gondolin's golden warrior strode off, leaving them to
watch his departure in silence, save for Gil-galad's disbelieving
mutter of  "What the.?"

Eventually Círdan turned to Elrond.  "I hope you will not attempt to
claim an authority which is well beyond both your right and your
experience." he began.

"Beyond my right?" Elrond asked sharply. "Really? I had no idea I'd
been declared illegitimate, my Lord. When did that happen? He's quite
right, you know. Ereinion is High King, but Elros and I can certainly
claim authority over someone who sees himself primarily as a citizen
of Gondolin."

"It is a great pity you are so unlike your brother," Círdan snapped.
"I am regularly convinced that he is the one who should have been
numbered amongst the Firstborn."

Laslech, having considered her options in this sea of raised voices,
had quietly located herself behind and to the left of Elrond. Some
implied threat in Círdan's raised tone made her nervous, and she
attempted her first serious growl, causing Gil-galad to snort with
laughter. Elrond favoured him with a dark look before returning his
attention to Círdan.

"Perhaps you need to have a chat with the Valar about that," he said
tartly, remembering the silent pavilion and the cool, emotionless
voice of the Herald telling them to choose.  "They neglected to state
a clear preference."

~*~*~*~

Several hours after these events, Gil-galad was alone in his workroom,
looking with interest and not a little longing at the map of the
recently established town about which he had previously received a
report. He had been sufficiently interested to request further
information and the small community had been quick to oblige.

Few people ever realised how much interest he took in these matters,
or the extent to which he would have enjoyed the challenge of
overseeing the development of a settlement of this type himself. There
was no place in his life for such adventures, of course. His interest,
therefore, had been suppressed, but never completely stifled.

A small sound in the general vicinity of the doorway made him look up.
Elrond, wearing a fairly subdued-looking blue tunic, was standing
halfway into the room, waiting to draw his attention.

"May I speak to you?" his cousin asked, once he saw he'd been noticed.
Gil-galad nodded, leaning back in his chair and stretching thoroughly.
If he was honest, a few extra hours` sleep would have been useful,
though he was more than happy with the reason he had missed them.

Elrond came over and stood looking down at the map with interest.
"Where is this?" he asked after a minute, shooting Gil-galad an
inquiring look. The King traced along the outline of the coast with
one finger down to the Havens, orientating Elrond, who nodded his
thanks. They studied the map for a while in companionable silence,
Gil-galad wordlessly pointing out details and getting nods and glances
in reply. Eventually, however, Elrond straightened up and said
quietly, "I need to apologise to you. I went too far. I forgot you
were the King. I spoke to you as my cousin, and I was disrespectful to
your rank."

Gil smiled slightly, keeping his eyes on the map. It was an error
Elrond would never have made even as recently as half a year ago. He
was finally starting to believe he was safe and in a place where he no
longer had to watch every word with care.

"I think it's Círdan to whom you owe the apology," he suggested. "You
weren't directly rude to me, after all, just dismissive, which I'm
prepared to overlook. And you were at least half right about having
some kind of hereditary authority over Glorfindel. It's still too soon
for him to regard himself as anything other than a citizen of
Gondolin, after all.  You might think twice about actually attempting
to use it, though."

Elrond's face had taken on a stubborn expression. "I am not
apologising to Círdan," he said firmly. "He never has a good word to
say to me or about me, and today it happened once too often. He had no
business insulting Maglor. He did the best he could with us."

Gil-galad allowed his face to reflect the satisfaction he felt on
hearing this. He had also felt Círdan's comment to be misplaced; he
was a firm believer in loyalty and Maglor had raised the twins to the
best of his considerable ability.

"I think he was more interested in making a point, Elrond. I truly
don't think it was his intention to insult Maglor; had it been, I
would have said something myself. As you say, he cared for you and
Elros, and that you were angry on his behalf is good and right. Only
next time," he suggested with a quick, affectionate smile, "you might
consider being angry with a little more diplomacy."

They exchanged glances and Elrond looked away first, giving a half
nod. "I'll apologise for being rude, because I should respect his
age," he agreed. "But not for what I said." Gil-galad decided he
lacked the will to pursue matters further, and simply hoped the
apology went better than he somehow suspected it would. Instead he
moved on to a subject he had been avoiding for as long as possible.

"I was wondering where you'd prefer to be seated tomorrow," he asked.
"You can sit with Elros, of course, but it might confuse some people.
I thought either with my aunt or else next to Glorfindel..?"

"Tomorrow?" Elrond had returned his attention to the map and was
studying it with unexpected interest.

"Your brother's formal dinner?" Gil-galad reminded him mildly. Elrond
neglected to look up.

"Oh, that. I wasn't planning to attend, you can leave me off the list.
Why have they put the market over here, with less access to the road?"

"So that there's no interference with passing traffic. It's accessible
enough, just not intrusive. I'll be interested to see how that idea
works. And yes, you are coming. This is a formal dinner; you have to
be present."

"Have to?" Elegant brows were raised above cool grey eyes.

Gil-galad's probable response was interrupted by Glorfindel rapping
lightly on the doorframe and he greeted the blonde with something
close to relief. Before the apology he had been practicing in his head
could be uttered, Glorfindel said, "I came to apologise. I was rude
beyond belief to you. Of course I recognise your authority, it was
just that."

"...just that I acted for all the world as though I owned you, and
you, quite rightly, put me in my place. We were both at fault, but I
was more so than you."

Glorfindel smiled, his look warm and affectionate. "Then we were both
wrong, we have both apologised, and now we can let it rest, if you
will?"

Gil-galad's answer was to reach out and slide an arm lightly round the
blonde's waist. "Indeed, let it rest," he agreed.  "I have a more
pressing argument to engage in." He turned his attention back to
Elrond who was more or less ignoring them, apparently engrossed in an
account of the detailed research into likely types of farming to be
attempted in the area, which had poor soil due to its nearness to the
sea.

"There's no point in ignoring me, cousin. This is far from settled and
the dinner's tomorrow, which means we can't put this discussion off
any longer. My original plan was for you to be seated with Lord
Círdan, but I think I'd fear for my digestion. Another possibility is
for you to sit with the delegation from the Second-born.host them for
me, perhaps?"

The sensual mouth was set into a straight line, and the long-lashed
eyes stared at him rebelliously.  Hosting the delegates was to have
been Círdan's task, and was both an honour and a responsibility, but
Elrond was having none of it. Gil-galad felt his temper rising.
"Look, these are your choices. You can sit with Círdan, you can sit
with Glorfindel, you can sit with the Men or you can sit with my aunt."

Glorfindel, who had heard the first part of the conversation before
entering the room, and was following the one-sided exchange in
silence, interrupted quietly, meeting Elrond's eyes and speaking
directly to him.

"Would you consider sitting with me? It would help me if you did. You
know I'm still not comfortable surrounded by strangers. And you can't
decline to attend," he added firmly, forestalling the comment he could
see being developed for his benefit. "Your brother deserves better
than for you to insult him and treat a dinner in his honour as beneath
you."

~*~*~*~

Convincing Elrond had gone surprisingly well, Glorfindel mused to
himself later as he strolled through the carefully cultivated rose
garden. Roses disliked the soil and setting of this part of Lindon
but, coaxed by Elves who had a deep love for and understanding of the
fragrant flowers, they had begun to thrive.

Knowing perhaps better than Gil-galad the intensity of feeling
involved in the matter of Elros' departure and all things connected
with it, he had used the simple approach of appealing to Elrond's
better nature which, despite rumour, really did exist. The Half-elf
was well aware of Glorfindel's difficulties with being on public
display, his extreme discomfort at having to interact with strangers.

Finally it was agreed that together they would host the guests from
the delegation of the Second-born, which would be an uncomfortable
business for the blonde, but he understood the art of compromise as
practiced by Gil-galad, and accepted his part in it.

After Elrond had left, Gil had congratulated him on a job well done,
in between a very thorough attempt to kiss and make up which was not
strictly necessary but still very nice indeed. So nice, in fact, that
it had necessitated the closing of the door against the world. After
that, the chance of discovery having been reduced, fingers that grew
more fevered by the moment undid buttons and fastenings, and divested
bodies of various items of clothing in a clutter upon the floor,
making a trail that led inexorably to the deep window seat.

Glorfindel had made a discovery. Gil had the power to simply make his
mind stop working. He would be talking and following a line of thought
and suddenly Gil's mouth would be at his throat, Gil's tongue would be
caressing his ear, stroking slowly and sensuously from lobe to tip,
and he would forget what he had been meaning to say, words halted,
lost all meaning, and the only things that mattered were what that
mouth was going to do next, and how soon it would take Gil's large,
sensitive and very talented hands to follow. In his clearer moments he
wondered if this was the stuff of which addiction was made.

This time was no different. Sweet kisses became something stronger,
more demanding. The lips that had captured his own with such
tenderness became hungry, insistent, as they roved down his neck. They
eventually settled where the muscle at the joint of neck to shoulder
could be nipped sharply before being sucked hard enough to leave a
dark purple mark, by no means the only one to be found colouring his
fair skin.

Glorfindel's rather nice tunic and the shirt of fine linen had been
discarded somewhere near the door, and Gil knelt on the seat, his
hands at the blonde's waist, holding him steady. He eagerly kissed a
trail that led very quickly from the base of the smooth throat to a
hardening nipple, which he drew into his mouth eagerly, his tongue
lapping it softly in an action closer to a kiss than the usual
suckling motion. Glorfindel's head fell back and he reached out a hand
to Gil's thick, dark hair, sinking his fingers into the softness,
while his breathing grew shallow and his eyes slowly closed.

The first rose tinted nipple was released, the other offered the same
caress of tongue and lips, warm wetness sending fire stroking to the
source of all pleasure. Glorfindel groaned and, almost without
thought, moved one hand down to give some ease to the sudden hardness
at his groin. Gil sucked sharply, creating a sensation somewhere on
the border between pleasure and pain, and then released him for long
enough to whisper, "Go on, touch yourself, let me watch you."

Glorfindel found he was being watched by intense blue eyes, within
which a pale flame burned. He held Gil's gaze, directing in downwards
to focus on the movement of his hand while he eased himself back
slowly till he was lying on the seat, one leg drawn up, the other flat
but bent at the knee.  Gil leaned over him, alternating between the
stone hard, ruby nipples, sucking sharply, licking, teasing, while all
the time watching, fascinated.

Glorfindel unfastened his leggings with one hand, the other remaining
tangled lightly in Gil's hair, and carefully drew aside cloth to
reveal that his cock was, even at this early stage in their
lovemaking, darkened and erect.  He took himself in hand and began to
stroke while rubbing his thumb lightly over the slit, spreading the
fluid he found there over the head and round the rim, and all the time
continuing the steady motion, up and down. His eyes closed again and
he began to moan softly and move his hips lightly in time to the
rhythm he had set.

Gil had stopped all pretense of participating at this stage and had
gone to kneel on the floor next to the seat, his head against
Glorfindel's chest, watching, breathing in time with the soft moans.
The fact that Glorfindel was turning into a wonderfully uninhibited
lover, taking joy in their shared pleasure, was one of the many things
about him that Gil-galad found irresistible. Eventually, however, he
could remain a spectator no more. 

"Waited long enough," he muttered, and picked up the little container
of rosemary-scented oil, one of a selection which he kept to use in
the small burner on the corner of his desk when he was having a long
day and felt his mood needed lifting. He was a little surprised at
having kept the presence of mind to retrieve it before crossing the
room. Kneeling up, he unfastened his leggings, his eyes never leaving
Glorfindel's hand, following the almost languid action of his thumb
over the engorged head, teasing first at the slit, then around the
underside of the rim, while his hand remained wrapped around his
erection, holding it in a firm grasp.

Gil poured the oil into his hand, and then proceeded to apply it to
his penis, his hand gripping a little tighter than needed, his breath
hissing at each down stroke. When he was ready, he rose and moved to
the end of the seat, and proceeded to tug Glorfindel's leggings down,
pausing to remove his boots at the last minute before dragging the
clothing off to follow them onto the floor.

"Don't stop, don't stop," he murmured, running his hands firmly up the
backs of Glorfindel's thighs to the sensitive area behind the knees as
he smoothly drew the blonde's legs up and over his shoulders.
Glorfindel cooperated, crossing his ankles lightly behind Gil's neck
and drawing his knees up towards his chest.

Gil watched for a moment longer as Glorfindel continued to fondle
himself, then he moved his hands down, clasping firm buttocks,
lifting, spreading and then thrusting forward so that the head of his
erection just barely penetrated the tight warmth that awaited it.

He remained motionless, looking at the sight beneath him. The blonde
was completely naked now, his hair a disheveled tangle over face and
chest. His nipples were dark and still damp, his pale honey skin had
the hint of a sheen of moisture to it, his cock was slick with pre
cum. Glorfindel opened deep blue eyes and looked at him in an
unfocused manner, then with a strange, tense smile asked huskily,
"What are you waiting for?"

Gil-galad needed no further encouragement; he thrust forward slowly,
carefully, all the way to the hilt. Glorfindel jerked up to meet him,
growling in need. "Concentrate on how this feels," Gil grated, drawing
back slowly then thrusting deep and hard. "Focus on how it feels to
have me inside you." 

Glorfindel cried out inarticulately and blindly clasped Gil's arm with
his free hand, tightening his fingers hard enough to leave bruises,
and began to move to the pace he was set, giving himself over
completely to desire.

Completion was swift. Glorfindel was highly sensitive and responsive,
and it took no more than two dozen hard but well aimed thrusts to
drive him over the edge, crying out and arching his back violently,
his face contorting and his head tossing from side to side. The
combination of the contractions around his shaft and the sight of the
vision of erotic passion he was impaling caused Gil-galad to find his
release deep within his lover almost immediately afterwards.

~*~*~*~

Glorfindel made his way through the hallways of the public section of
the Palace, fresh from a brief meeting with Erestor, the junior
military advisor with the interesting past and the dryly ironic sense
of humour. They had discussed the level of expertise Glorfindel was
looking for in his potential students, and had considered several
possible venues for the classes. As a rule, no one waylaid this legend
made flesh at those times when he walked with purpose, a look of
thoughtful distraction on his face. This time proved to be different.

"Glorfindel. Cousin. How is it that you are alive?"

The blunt question should have been unacceptable, even though the
voice that uttered it was sweet and low, with just the slightest hint
of amusement. Because everyone else went to great lengths to avoid the
subject, however, Glorfindel found the directness refreshing if
startling. Turning, he found himself looking into eyes the blue-green
colour of a sunlit sea, set in a grave, high-cheekboned face. The
first thing anyone noticed, however, was the hair, which was golden as
his own, and threaded with strands of pure silver. Despite an attempt
to look offended, he found he was smiling broadly.

"Nerwen, only you would phrase it quite like that," he told her with a
chuckle, reaching out to hug Finarfin's daughter, the flame of bright
defiance and courage who, overshadowing her brothers, had been amongst
the leaders of the rebellion, arguing with Fëanor, rejecting without
reservation the warning to return home, crossing the Ice with a grim,
determined air that was the best lesson in leading by example that he
had ever seen.

Glorfindel, distant kin to this spirit of adamant, had admired her
since childhood. She was one of the few people with whom he had always
been at ease, and discovering that this had not changed was almost
like a homecoming to him. However, he swiftly realised that things
were not quite as they had been before. Galadriel was tall and had
always been as strong and as slender as a young birch tree, but he
became aware that something had changed.

He released her and stepped back to look at her properly for the first
time. The once reed slim form was now delightfully swollen in what, to
his inexperienced eye, seemed to be the mid stages of child bearing.
There had been whispers, of course, and veiled comments, but nothing
had been said to him directly, and the matter had apparently escaped
Gil-galad's memory. Glorfindel paused, even less certain than usual of
the right thing to say. A low chuckle rescued him.

"Yes, I'm pregnant. Yes, of course it's his - we're formally bonded,
after all - so, yes, it will be half Sindarin."

Glorfindel coloured slightly at her knowing reference to the manner in
which her life was discussed, the stories of how Finarfin's daughter
had, while in Menegroth, met and eventually bonded with a Sinda, kin
to Elu Thingol, true, but nonetheless, not one of their own, and was
moving from place to place in his wake, as rootless as any elleth of
the Wandering Companies.

Nothing was said too loudly. She was the High King's aunt after all,
and Glorfindel had pretended to either not hear or else not understand
the careful jokes, though he could have explained that it was more
than likely to be Nerwen's restless spirit that carried them forward,
in her search for somewhere to call her own.

"People gossip," he said finally, stating a self evident truth. He
smiled at her, taking in the pale green robe, the darker over-tunic,
the edge embroidered with yellow flowers, the sparkle in her eyes, the
slight roundness to her cheeks. "You look well enough, though, so let
them get on with it."

She burst out laughing. "Cousin, you've changed. And for the better.
Yes indeed, let them. And let us walk and talk and compare our lives.
You, I think, have a tale to tell.  And Nerwen was my name amongst my
kin," she added. "Most now call me Galadriel."

~*~*~*~

Their walk took them outside to the corner of the garden Glorfindel
had favoured since he had arrived in Lindon, the same spot where he
had first met Gil-galad. They settled on the bench near the little
fountain and spent a pleasant hour catching up on the events in one
another's lives, although Galadriel did the majority of the talking as
she had somewhat more news to share.

She explained that she and her mate - Celeborn, formerly of Doriath -
were in Lindon for a short time only, to await the birth of their
child and to make decisions about the course of their future. They
were not resident in the Palace,  choosing, instead, to have their own
small establishment close enough to the shoreline for them to be
lulled to sleep each night by the sounds of the waves.  She was vague
about their possible plans, saying only that she would be remaining in
Middle-earth.

The discussion about Glorfindel's `misadventure', as she chose to call
it, was more animated.

"What do you mean, it caught your hair? What were you doing fighting a
Balrog with your hair flying loose like something out of a saga?" she
asked, bemused, reaching up a hand to touch the offending hair lightly.

"It was a festival," he explained with a helpless laugh, feeling his
cheeks flushing. "I had no idea that I would be fighting for my life,
for the lives of others. Once it began there was barely time to seek
armour and weapons, and many of us had no time even for that. I was
fortunate to be near home. I never gave my hair a thought."

She gave him a sideways glance, then put her hand on his shoulder in
apology. "Things happen for their own good reason," she said in a more
gentle tone. "You fought as you did, perhaps even died as you did, to
preserve the life of Eärendil, and he in his turn brought help out of
the West to light the darkness for us."

Her voice trailed off and she raised an eyebrow as Glorfindel sighed
and nodded, then tilted his head back to look up into a tree where a
nest containing three fledglings could be seen.

"I died to save a child who in his turn fathered children," he agreed.
"One of those children said something very like this to me not so long
ago. And who knows, perhaps you're both right. Perhaps that was why I
had to die.  It doesn't help with the question of why the Valar sent
me back though. "

They sat listening to the birds and the soft, far-off sounds of
voices. Galadriel was at ease with silence. She sat with half closed
eyes, her hands linked lightly across the curve of her belly, her
concentration apparently elsewhere. She was probably listening to the
trees talk, Glorfindel though, more than half seriously. She had spent
time with Yavanna in her youth and since then had given long years to
learning as much as Melian had been prepared to teach. As he watched,
she took a deep breath, smiling slightly to herself, then slanted him
a look under unexpectedly dark lashes.

"They measure time differently to us, my dear," she told him. "The
reason may come to pass this week, next year, an age from now. There
is no way to know. But your path will be guided, things will be put in
your way to prompt you, never fear. They would hardly go to so much
trouble simply to leave you to your own devices."

Trying to ignore the cynical tone, alarmingly similar to Elrond's, he
confided in her the fear that came and whispered to him in the dark,
or shadowed him on those quiet days when he felt lost and purposeless.
Almost anytime, in fact, when he wasn't in Gil's company.

"What if my purpose is to die?" he asked her. "What if they just sent
me back to die again? Sometimes I feel almost set apart, almost as
though my time here will be too short to make it worth anyone's while
to get close to me."

Galadriel was quiet for so long he thought she had decided not to
answer but when she finally spoke he heard the weight of consideration
in her voice, and something else, a thread of knowing that for some
reason traced ice down his spine.

"I believe you were sent back to live," she said quietly. "Why else
would they go to such trouble? Not now, but in a time to come, your
past experiences will stand you in good stead when you are called on
to protect the future. For the present, do what seems best and most
fulfilling, your destiny will come to find you in its own time. If you
simply must seek answers, look for symmetry," she added. "The Shining
Ones enjoy it. You died for Eärendil, perhaps you live for his son? I
have heard more than enough about Elwing's younger son to think he may
be in sore need of your protection over time. Or perhaps there is
something else, someone else, who can tell? Their ways are - intricate."

He returned her look with one he hoped was at least as steady. "Was
that why you decided to remain? Your lack of ease with the Valar?"

Galadriel snorted in a most unladylike manner, putting Glorfindel in
mind of her uncle Fingolfin, to whom she had been as close as a
daughter. "Decide? My dear, there was no deciding to be done. I was
told that my actions had been unacceptable and that my time of testing
and cleansing lay still long in the future. Not till I pass this
unknown test will I be allowed to leave here. I am an exile in the
true sense."

At his exclamation of sympathy she shook her head briskly. "Their
Herald, one of the more unpleasant of his kind that I have ever seen,
told me this and seemed quite put out when I laughed. I have no need
of their forgiveness, nor do I need to be summoned home like a house
pet that has played outdoors for longer than expected and is now to be
returned to its cage. "

"Galadriel," he breathed in horror. Somehow she made him far more
nervous than Elrond had. Elrond had never seen the Western Shore, nor
those who walked upon it. Nerwen - the new name would take time -
certainly had. She swung round to face him, her eyes suddenly blazing.

"They will not allow me back because I will not be caged, and they
fear that in me and the effect it might have on others. They have seen
rebellion once, after all," she hissed. "It is enough that I am bound
by the conventions and short sighted rules that make up the Code of
the Noldor, but at least I will survive that without the indignity of
a cage. I am content to remain here for eternity if needs be."

It was only over dinner that Glorfindel finally pieced together the
meaning behind that uncharacteristic outburst. Noldorin conventions
and law gave females limited rights of inheritance, especially where
the royal succession was concerned. Were that not so, Galadriel,
daughter of Finarfin, not Gil-galad, son of Orodreth, would have sat
in Lindon as High Queen of the Noldor in Middle-earth.

Chapter 12

"I talked to Círdan."

Elros entered the darkening room and kicked the door shut, an act
signifying either frustration or tiredness. He dropped a couple of
half-rolled maps onto a chair as he passed it, heading towards the
table on which a wine jug and a pair of goblets normally stood, to
find the jug had been replaced by a slender miruvor jar instead. He
nodded without questioning the substitution and poured an amount of
the clear liquid into one of the small cups laid out beside it.

After taking two or three sips he turned his attention to his brother,
who was sitting near the window, Laslech on the floor at his feet.
Elros gave the dog a concerned look. Amongst all the other final
choices he was attempting to deal with, he would have to make time to
decide her future, too.

"I told him it might make everyone's life a lot easier if he left
things like your manners and your interesting dress sense for
Gil-galad to deal with. After all, he is ultimately responsible for
you. You might want to watch your tongue though, it makes it harder
for Gil to sympathise if he has to keep excusing you.."

"He insulted Maglor," Elrond interrupted evenly. "He said we were
badly raised. I don't have to accept that. Even Ereinion said he went
too far."

Elros was quiet. He would have thought twice about defending Maglor,
but Elrond's loyalty was a knife-edged flame that put his own
ambivalence to shame. Maglor had stood between them and death on a
number of occasions, and Elrond certainly would not be the one to
forget it. He tiredly wondered what else Círdan had not seen fit to
mention, then turned to his primary concern. "Elrond, about
Glorfindel.?" he asked, not even sure how to word the query.

Elrond finally turned to look at him, and favoured him with a slightly
satisfied smile. "Oh, that. That wasn't me, that was all Ereinion's
fault."

Elros gave him the expected look of doubt verging on disbelief. "I was
told you encouraged Glorfindel into doing something - what was the
word? - ill-conceived. Or is that two words?"

"Hyphenated," Elrond responded. "And I didn't do anything of the sort.
Cirdan and I were having a.discussion about whether he had the right
to tell Glori what to do. I made the point that I was Turgon's heir,
well, one of them anyway, so Ereinion was inspired to add his five
words, which were that, as High King, he would decide Glori's future."

Elrond paused for effect, his eyes sparkling with mischief, then went
on. "It's outside my experience, but I'd think it a bad idea to remind
your new lover he has to answer to you outside of the bedroom as well.
Glori didn't take too well to it. He interrupted us, which he never
does, told Ereinion he was actually free to swear allegiance where he
chose, and then chose me. I think," he added, studying his fingernails
judiciously, "I think Ereinion made him very angry."

Elros dropped down into the opposite chair, and sipped his drink. "I
always manage to miss all the excitement," he remarked, before raising
a questioning brow as he finally took in his brother's appearance.

Elrond was wearing scarlet, so dark it was almost black, in the form
of leggings and a softly draping overtunic, under which he wore a
white shirt made of some filmy fabric. His waist length hair was
caught back from his face with a pair of ruby-studded mithril clasps,
and it tumbled and flowed, fine, sparkling and unconfined, over his
shoulders and down his back.

"I didn't know you had been invited this evening," Elros observed,
frowning slightly. "I wonder if that's quite the right hairstyle,
though? I know it's meant to be informal, but..."

"Invited?" Elrond gave him an expressionless look that was highly
expressive. "For some reason Ereinion never invites me anywhere if he
has the choice."

"Can't imagine why not," Elros responded blandly, sounding more than a
little like their royal cousin.

Elrond shot a glance at his brother out of the corner of his eye.
Elros looked tired, however, and whatever retort had been on his
tongue died unuttered. Instead, he asked, "Invited where, by the way?"

"Gil invited my new councillors to spend an hour or two with us, just
getting acquainted.  We're just going to drink a little wine, exchange
a few pleasantries."

Elrond nodded. "No, I wouldn't expect to be on the guest list for
something like that, luckily. It sounds dreadful. Shouldn't you be
getting ready, then? I assume it's pre-dinner?"

Elros nodded, taking another sip of the potent contents of the cup.
"Just want to finish this, clear my head of the remnants of the day,
then I'll change and leave." He gazed out at the darkening garden,
thought for a moment, then turned his attention back to his brother.

"Was there some reason you wanted me to hurry?" he asked mildly. The
black haired Elf, whom he vaguely remembered from the time before
Lindon, had not yet arrived in the garden, but would almost certainly
appear within the next few minutes. Elrond looked suitably blank,
confirming his suspicions. Confusion would have been more convincing,
though he decided not to mention this.

He got up, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, trying to
loosen the tightly knotted braids a little, and favoured his twin with
a light kick as he passed. "Made peace with him, did you?" he asked,
placing the empty cup on the table.

"Have no idea what you mean," Elrond retorted, though a grin tugged at
the corner of his mouth.

"Medium height, black hair, memorable backside.?"

"Actually, I hadn't really noticed the backside," Elrond interrupted.
"I just enjoy talking to him, not ogling his body. I'll remember to look."

"You do that," Elros agreed, turning quickly and leaving the room
before Elrond noticed the sudden rush of moisture to his eyes. He
would never see the outcome of this relationship, if there was one.
There would be letters, of course, but not his twin's unpredictable
response to questions like these, nor the opportunity to estimate his
mood and intentions by his choice in clothing, the way he wore his hair...

He went into his room, shut the door, and leaned back against it with
his eyes closed against the tears. Not for the first time, he stood
alone and cursed the masters of their fate softly and fluently, using
words he had learned from the hardened Elves who had followed Maedhros
in his other life, in the time before the pavilion on the beach.

~*~*~*~

The small reception hall close to the main entrance of the Palace was
a plain, drafty room with long windows which looked out onto a grass
covered courtyard. It was simply furnished, having little to recommend
it other than a large fireplace and, owing to its central position,
was normally used for quick, informal gatherings.

On this occasion, however, it had been transformed. Heavy drapes were
drawn against the chill wind which had resumed howling after a day's
pause, and brightly coloured rugs, imported from the East coast, were
strewn across the floor. Informal seating, arranged to best encourage
light conversation, had been placed within reach of the fire's warmth.
Earlier, unobtrusive servants had passed back and forth with wine and
selections of pastries and small, candied delicacies. The room was
empty now, save for a large, dark haired Elf who was leaning back in a
chair, wine cup in hand, gazing into the fire.

The assembled company had been an unlikely combination of Elves, Men,
and a single Half-elf, everyone attempting to look and sound at their
ease, most of them failing quite dismally. They had sat talking and
smiling and longing for the dinner hour and freedom.

The Men were those who had been selected, after much debate amongst
the Second-born, to be the councillors who would accompany and advise
the new King of Númenor. The Elves were represented by Círdan,
Gil-galad, three of his senior advisors - and Glorfindel, whom
Gil-galad had insisted attend. The golden warrior, he declared
expansively over lunch, needed to expose himself to as many new
experiences and people as were made available to him by his presence
in Lindon. He should regard it as an aid towards deciding his future.

At Glorfindel's look of pure horror he had grinned cheerfully, saying,
"You need to have more faith in yourself than that. I'll be there,
you'll be fine. Just sip some wine, look devastatingly attractive, and
smile."

The Half-elven representative and ostensive reason for this gathering,
Elros, son of Eärendil, had moved with trained ease from one guest to
another, sitting sometimes to talk a while, the friendly, personable
smile on his face belying the tension that could be discerned in his
eyes. The Elves and Men were strangers to one another, the High King
was present, the Men, in some instances, had barely met, and he was
expected to be the mortar to bind them all together.

All told it had been an interminable few hours for all concerned.

The guests, both Elves and Men, had long since departed for dinner and
their quarters, seeking rest in preparation for what was likely to be
a late night on the morrow. Gil-galad, however, after a light dinner,
had found himself restless and unable to settle, and decided to go for
a walk. On his way to the main entrance he paused at the door to the
reception room where he had earlier helped Elros entertain his guests.
He found it was currently in the process of being returned to order,
all traces of previous social activity, in the form of cups and
plates, were being removed, along with the extra chairs.

A sudden desire for solitude struck him, something not afforded by his
private apartments where he was always `at home' and available to his
councillors, Glorfindel and several relatives as a matter of course.
On a whim he instructed that the fire be built up and that one of the
wine flagons be left. He was surprised to discover that it was still
full. After the servants had finished their work and departed, he
settled in a chair close to the fire, where he sat watching the flames
as he sipped his wine and listened to the rising wind and let his
thoughts roam free. 

* * * * *

Fire put him in mind of Glorfindel, who had gone off into the cold to
check on his horse. Gil had seen him sit and gaze into the heart of a
blaze in similar manner - like yet unlike, as there seemed to be an
air of quiet determination about him at such times. He was learning
not to be afraid of fire, Elrond had told him, displaying barely
concealed amazement that the question had even needed to be asked.

The reasons that drew him to Glorfindel with a strength lacking in
previous attachments were complex. There was, obviously, that blonde
beauty and warm nature, but, less apparently, there was the echo of
familiarity, a sense that here was another child of privilege who knew
how it felt to lack self belief. The contrast between them lay in
their responses, in the opposing faces they showed to the world, yet
it was the shy, tentative Glorfindel who had responded to affection
with warmth and openness, enticing Gil-galad to join him, return
caring with tenderness.

Kingship had found him far too young, he mused, draining the cup and
reaching down to refill it. He had barely reached his majority when
Gondolin fell. The crown had meant and continued to mean fighting, and
before he was anything else Gil-galad, Orodreth's son, was a warrior,
bred for it, trained to it from earliest youth. On the day when word
came that the Hidden City had, indeed, been found and had fallen and
he was the last hope of his family, he had understood that he no
longer fought for the warriors under him, or the haven where he lived,
but for everyone.

The pressure of being responsible for holding all this together - the
remnant of the Exiles, the refugees from doomed settlements, everyone
who looked to him for leadership, for strength, was at times all but
overwhelming. However, he soon discovered that opportunities to ease
his tensions, warm his bed, which had been few and far between under
Círdan's strict rules and control, abounded for a young and highly
attractive monarch who appeared friendly, outgoing, and immensely
likable. 

If he looked deep enough into the fire he could almost see them,
faces, bodies, entering and leaving his life, almost interchangeable.
He indulged himself discreetly when time and circumstance allowed.
There was no sense of commitment; his lovers amused his leisure, kept
him calm and focused, yet they had no hold on his soul. They were,
quite literally, out of sight, out of mind.

He drank absently, his thoughts making tenuous links, sliding from
topic to topic, always returning to Glorfindel, he of the golden hair
and clear blue eyes, young-seeming and somehow innocent despite his
years. Glorfindel of the lean, muscular body, the sweet mouth.
Glorfindel, the hero who had fought at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad when he,
Gil, had still been a child. Fighting in a battle where another King
had fallen, another been made.

The shifting of a log in the fireplace brought Gil-galad back to the
moment and he leaned forward, resisting a wave of giddiness, and used
the poker to rearrange the wood more productively. He noticed the
goblet was almost empty again and wondered for a moment if he had had
enough, then, shrugging, took the opportunity to fill it before
resuming his contemplation of the dancing flames.

He never allowed anyone too close, of course. No one saw the royal
orphan, left to walk as best he could in the footprints of the larger
than life heroes who had worn the crown before him, and trying to hide
his feelings of inferiority and inadequacy behind a veneer of
straightforward common sense and bland good humour. He wanted, more
than anything, to be a good King, the King that, after all this blood
and pain, people deserved, but he had scant faith in his ability.

He hid, knowing his responsibilities, knowing the terrible mistakes
that had been committed before, knowing it was up to him to see they
were never repeated. Determined that no one would discover how
horribly afraid he was that he would fail, as Turgon, Fingon and
Fingolfin all in their turn had failed. He repeated their names aloud
and, because he was alone, raised his cup to them, toasting them in
red wine and firelight, those great ones whom he had been asked to excel.

His thoughts wandered back obliquely to shining blonde hair, hanging
like a cloak about him as a warm mouth kissed a path down his chest,
and a low though light voice murmured to him, telling him what no
other had before, that he was beautiful, his body  perfect, but he
drew back from this image and instead tried to imagine surrendering
emotionally to the owner of that voice, that mouth.

He wondered how it would feel, sharing the secrets of his heart,
admitting to his loneliness as a child, his conviction that he would
never make half the King his predecessors had, despite their uniform
untimely ending. Even more, could he reach down more deeply still,
confide his resistance to the idea of a match that would produce the
much needed heir? A reluctance that went to the very core of who he
was - not the King, not the warrior, not the advisor or decision
maker, himself, Ereinion.

He refilled the cup with an unsteady hand, noting with surprise that
the flagon was almost empty and that he was probably drunk. Well, it
was a rare enough event, he decided. He settled back in the chair,
returned his by now less than focused gaze to the fire, and attempted
to pursue his line of thought further.

Being alone was a situation of long familiarity. The desire for a
confidante was completely at odds with an upbringing that had refused
him the right to weakness, to error. Furthermore he had an uneasy
certainty that to say the word would make it so, that to admit to his
lack would make it real and binding, not just on him but upon all
those to whom he was responsible. Therefore, in the ways that
mattered, he had long since chosen to walk alone.

He wondered how being alone would affect Elrond when Elros left for
Númenor, a choice made for reasons known only to his cousins and the
Valar. But then Elrond, unlike him, would have Glorfindel - what did
he call him? Glori? Hazily, he considered Glorfindel, who needed
closeness as plants needed water and sunlight. If he could not permit
himself to supply the required closeness, would Glorfindel not seek it
where he could? Unbidden, Elrond's face, full-lipped, grey-eyed,
erotically enticing, swam before his eyes.

To that there was no answer, simply another question. Yes, the sex was
incredible, but could he accept this golden gift waiting to be
cherished and savoured, whose fire could, if allowed, warm him and
light the hidden places of his heart? Dare he allow the proffered love
to soothe the hurt of loss, hold the frightened child within close,
stand, brave and glowing, a shield against the dark, be his courage,
fight monsters for him - allow him to be weak? Draining his cup, he
wondered if it were possible for a King's life to be more than duty
and sacrifice. Círdan, he decided, nodding his head conclusively,
would certainly never agree with that.

~*~*~*~

Elrond waited at least ten minutes before leaving his rooms, moving
with what he hoped was easy nonchalance. Laslech followed him out,
looking with deep suspicion at the darkening garden. The wind had
risen again, and she found the sounds of rattling shutters and
thrashing branches disquieting. She was accustomed to Erestor's
presence and the morning's misadventure had taught her to let him
alone until he was finished. She went, instead, to lie under the tree
where Elrond often sat to read.

Faced with the problem of controlling unbound hair in the worsening
weather, Elrond chose the shelter of a small thicket of lavender,
regretting the vanity that had made him leave his hair loose on this
wind tossed night. He resisted the temptation to hold onto it, trying
to preserve some dignity and sophistication, but he doubted that wild
and unruly looked particularly desirable either.

Erestor's preparation for his nightly routine had been less thorough
than usual - no centering and balancing, merely a clearing of the
mind, a few deep breaths and a vague dedication of his time to Lord
Oromë before beginning the slow, familiar poses. From the corner of an
eye he had seen the door open, followed by movement on the edge of his
vision which drew his attention to a sight that all but made him lose
track of the well-rehearsed sequence.

Elrond was wearing something dark and enticingly loose, and his hair,
web-fine, night-dark, was being lifted and tossed around him by the
wind like tendrils of smoke. Erestor pivoted on one heel to watch him
make his way to one of the more sheltered corners and sink down
gracefully, half obscured by waving foliage.

"Good evening, Elrond," he ventured once he was fairly certain his
voice would work.  "Your day went well, I hope?" Abandoning the normal
flow of the exercise, he found and held a pose that permitted him to
face the fey-looking creature seated amidst the lavender, resembling
more a forest Elf than the scion of Kings.

Elrond gave him a half smile, his eyes glinting in the gathering dusk.
"Well enough, I suppose. I met my brother's new councillors when they
arrived. That was quite interesting." At Erestor's raised brow,
offered while he moved smoothly up and round in a graceful swirl of
black hair before lunging at an unseen centre, he continued, "I had
never met Men in a group before. I thought they would be different to
us but they weren't really." He paused and thought a moment. "They
talk less than we do, perhaps."

Erestor, who had spent time in more mortal settlements than he could
remember during his years of gathering information for his company, to
be passed to either the King or Maedhros, sometimes both, smiled
slightly. He had never thought of Men as being more restrained than
Elves before.

"There's a dinner tomorrow, isn't there?" He glanced over as he asked
this, to be confronted by a glimpse of long, pale throat as the
Half-elf tossed his hair back out of his face. There was a flash of
jeweled clasps half hidden amidst the dark mass and they glinted and
sparkled in the remaining light. Erestor tried not to stare.

"Dinner, yes," Elrond said after a momentary hesitation. "It's going
to be long and boring, but Ereinion's set on giving Elros a good
farewell. Glorfindel and I will be sitting with the Men, apparently."

Erestor made some vague sound of acknowledgement as he bypassed
approximately a third of his usual routine in an effort, for probably
the first time since he had learnt it, to get it finished and out of
the way. He noted, coming up from a backward bend that had his hair
brushing the ground, that Elrond had straightened up and was watching
him with the same intensity he had been trying to conceal in his own
covert glances. Their eyes met for a moment, and the connection that
had been there in the morning returned, with increased intensity.

Ignoring the protest of his back and upper thighs, Erestor repeated
the motion, increasing the arch so that his head all but touched the
ground. Straightening, he held the final posture for a good five
heartbeats less than required before pressing his hands together at
chest height, palms inward and sinking slowly to the ground in an
attitude of kneeling rest.

Elrond, sitting with his arms wrapped loosely round his drawn up
knees, surveyed him with amused curiosity. "Where's the rest of it?"
he asked, the wind catching at his musical voice, making him sound
further off than he was, for Erestor had deliberately come to rest
close to the lavender thicket.

Erestor bit back delighted laughter. So, despite appearing to ignore
him, the Princeling had been watching well enough to have learned his
routine. "It's been a long day," he offered, still kneeling as he
reached up to release his hair from the knot that held it back from
his face. He smiled into the grey eyes. "And the company offered is
more to my taste than a routine that I've repeated twice daily for
most of my adult life."

"You were born into one of the Companies then?" Elrond asked him,
curious. "I remember seeing you, of course. Elros mentioned he had an
idea you answered to Gildor."

"Not born, no," Erestor answered, his fingers busy braiding hair. "I
came from Nargothrond originally. After it fell I joined one of the
Companies. I had training as a scout and they thought I could be
useful. My family died in the assault, I had nowhere else to go."

Elrond, who had lived his entire life thus far surrounded by similar
stories of destruction and relocation, nodded. He took a deep breath,
trying to settle the flutter of nervous excitement in his stomach, and
moved closer to Erestor, saying in a slightly breathless voice, "Can I
help you with your hair? I should have knotted mine - the wind grows
wilder by the minute." He didn't wait for a response, reaching out
instead to carefully separate an ebony tress into three strands which
he began braiding.

Erestor's mind swung free into some empty space that swallowed words,
thoughts, common sense. He clutched frantically at the last comment he
could respond to, reminding himself yet again that this was the King's
cousin, that he had already decided this was no safe road to travel.
"I spoke to your brother three, maybe four times in those days," he
said, pleased to hear his voice sounded smooth and relaxed. "The King
was always keen for news. I wasn't allowed contact with you, for some
reason. And all the Companies answer to Gildor Inglorion in the end,
one way or another."

Elrond looked up from his almost completed task, and smiled wickedly.
"Maedhros never trusted me to be discreet. He kept outsiders well away
from me. I can't imagine why."

They were so close that, despite the wind, Erestor felt the warmth of
sweet breath against his cheek when the Half-elf spoke, and caught,
again, the faint scent of violets. His senses seemed heightened; he
was very aware of the sound of the wind, the creaking of branches, a
shutter thudding regularly somewhere in the distance. It was almost
full dark now, the only light coming from the open door of the
apartment. He could feel the grass beneath him, the way his body
tingled from exercise and undeniable rising desire. Their eyes met,
held, then Elrond dropped his gaze lower, to Erestor's lips. Neither
of them moved for a moment, then the Half-elf leaned forward and his
lips brushed Erestor's, withdrew, then returned. With no more thought
than he would have given to drawing a breath, Erestor reached out a
hand, cupped a smooth cheek and chin, and claimed the offered mouth.

It was only after his tongue had parted those soft, full lips that
Erestor realised what he was doing, by which stage the idea of
stopping was almost a foreign concept. He reached an arm around
Elrond's firm, slender body, drawing him closer as he deepened the
kiss, his tongue sliding against smooth pressure before twining,
exploring, tasting, in a kiss that began in uncertainty and ended in
perfection. Elrond's arms went round him slowly, and their bodies
closed the small distance between them and blended seamlessly.

Erestor ran his fingers through hair that felt as soft and fine as it
looked and, as Elrond's grip on his shoulder and back tightened, he
probed deeper with his tongue whilst using his weight to move them
slowly back and down, with some vague intention of lying on the grass.

What might have followed remained in the realm of fantasy as Laslech,
forgotten by both, suddenly started up, ears pricked and, with a
welcoming bark, charged past them, heading for the open door. Elrond,
startled, broke the kiss, drawing back, his eyes wide, his breathing
quick. "Elros," he said by way of explanation, struggling to his feet,
pushing hair out of his face and looking painfully young and unsure of
himself. "I must go. I'm sorry, I."
 
Erestor rose too, reaching a hand for the Half-elf's arm, but let it
drop as he realised the retreat had less to do with the likelihood of
them being found together than with Elrond's own confusion about what
had just happened. Common sense came back and kicked, hard, and
Erestor straightened up and nodded. "Yes, of course," he heard himself
saying. "It grows late anyway. Tomorrow, perhaps?"

Elrond, already halfway to the door, looking back over his shoulder
and nodded. "Tomorrow," he agreed. "Morning. I won't be here tomorrow
night."  Retreating inside he closed the door, leaving Erestor alone
with the night, the wind and his thoughts.

A.N. - Gil-galad is the son of Galadriel's brother Orodreth, and not
Fingon's son (the more traditional choice) I mention this because bad
punctuation a few chapters back gave the impression his father must
have been Fingon. Not my beta's fault - all due to my own amazing
sloppiness.

Chapter 13

After the interminable socializing had finally come to an end, and
after a light dinner with Gil-galad, Glorfindel had gone to the
stables to check on his horse. He knew the grooms were amused by his
concern at what was no more than a light strain, but he had always
loved horses and already had a strong rapport with Carod. The walk
also gave him the opportunity to mull over the day's events.

The reception had proven surprisingly straightforward. Following Gil's
suggestions to the letter, he had settled in a chair as far from the
main focus of attention - Elros and Gil-galad - as he could find,
sipped his wine and kept his smiling responses to all overtures short.
Elros came over and spent a few minutes with him and on several
occasions Gil caught his eye, winked and raised his wine goblet in
salute, but otherwise he was left more or less to himself, present yet
uninvolved. Which more or less described his second life up till then,
he thought wryly.

He was returning to one of the few certainties in this new life, the
warmth of Gil-galad's welcome, when he saw movement, a more solid
darkness within the shadows next to one of the small trees that grew
in bright containers along the terrace .The area of deeper shadow
turned out to be Erestor, rendered unobtrusive by virtue of black hair
and dark clothing, who was leaning lightly against the colourfully
painted pot and staring off into the distance, apparently lost in thought.

Glorfindel paused. He could walk on, pretending not to notice, or he
could do something which he found painfully difficult - stop and
indulge in small talk for a few minutes. The choice was taken from him
when Erestor turned his head slightly and smiled in greeting.
Glorfindel forced down the habitual nervous flutter and went over to
join him.

"Enjoying the night?" he asked, cringing at the banality of the
question. He went to stand on the opposite side of the tree, keeping
it between them almost by way of a boundary.

Erestor's mouth twitched slightly, possibly not with mirth. "It seemed
the right time to be considering my future," he replied cryptically in
his quietly mellow voice.

Glorfindel shot him am inquiring glance, but was not invited to pursue
the subject. Making a noncommittal sound, he leaned against his side
of the container and shared the view of the shadowed garden and the
deeper darkness beyond that was the sea. They stood thus for a time,
separated by the small tree, experiencing an unexpectedly comfortable
silence.

"Was it a successful evening?" Erestor asked, breaking the stillness
after a while. "We were discussing the guest list over dinner. Quite
an interesting combination." 

"I don't think anyone besides the King was what you might call
comfortable," Glorfindel admitted with a quick smile. "But everything
seemed to go as planned. It's strange though, the Men seemed barely to
know one another." His voice reflected his dubiousness at the idea,
but Erestor caught the implied question and shook his head.

"They seldom mingle. They form little groups and band together against
the world. Though considering the violent times we've just lived
through it's no wonder they avoid strangers," he added, then paused,
his face thoughtful as he considered something. "As far as that goes,
outside of the Wandering Companies you seldom find much mingling
between Elves, either."

Glorfindel thought about that. "I knew quite a few Sindar," he said in
an almost tentative voice, then, before Erestor could comment, he
added, "Of course, Gondolin was very different to Lindon."

For a moment his vulnerability was discernable even by torchlight, and
Erestor felt a strong empathy with him. Gondolin, like Nargothrond,
was no more. For Glorfindel, too, the past was a closed book, gone,
leaving no remnant to which he could cling. His quick mind pursued
that thread a moment longer, wondering what, if anything, remained of
the Hidden City, and whom he could ask.

"You've had dealings with the Second-born, then?" Glorfindel asked
before the conversation could drift off into silence. He had learned
to do this from watching Gil-galad, and was quietly pleased that he
was becoming quite proficient. Erestor smiled and nodded, glad to
return to less emotive ground.

"I spent some time in their settlements, studying military movements
and such," he explained. "I posed as a trader, usually. That way, I
could spend as much time as I needed. They seemed pleasant enough, I
suppose. A little preoccupied with their own affairs, but."

Glorfindel smiled, amused. "That might have been their impression of
Elves, too, before you arrived and showed them our true colours -
insatiably curious about everything."

Erestor gave him a startled look. Unexpectedly, the warrior had a
sense of humour to go with the extreme good looks and legendary past.
He supposed that anyone spending as much time with Gil-galad as
Glorfindel was rumoured to would probably need one. The King was as
well known for his irreverent wit as for his administrative
capabilities or his battle skills. He acknowledged the observation
with a flash of dark eyes and a nod. 

"Tomorrow I have to give the visitors a tour of the armoury and
training grounds," he confided, though he thought it likely that
Glorfindel already knew this. "It surprised me a little. I would have
thought their new king would have liked to see to that himself."

"I doubt that Elros has spent much time training in arms lately,"
Glorfindel offered. "It would be more important for him to learn
history and lore and the like. He travels to a land without enemies,
after all."

"I hear he has the beginnings of a loremaster's skill?" Erestor had
heard Elrond's brother was as different to him as chalk to cheese, and
his first-hand observations certainly seemed to confirm this.

Glorfindel nodded. "The King's seen to it that he's been well-trained
in the skills needed for rulership. Not much time to be young, though.
Definitely not much time to build on the training he had from Maedhros."

Erestor widened his expressive dark eyes, his equivalent of raising an
eyebrow. "Maedhros trained them to fight?" he asked. Nothing he had
seen on his visits to that camp had given any indication of this,
although those visits had, of necessity, been brief.

"Enough to protect themselves at need, yes. I've tested Elrond - he's
better than good with a knife."

Erestor pursed his lips slightly, indicating surprise, and they lapsed
once more into an easy silence, until Glorfindel straightened up,
saying, "I'm for bed, I think. It's almost time for the watch to change."

Erestor nodded, though he was reluctant to go to bed where, he
suspected, he would be forced to deal with visions of smoky hair and
eyes, memories of a responsive mouth and a lithe body. He had a lot to
think about; a decision to pursue the Princeling would have the
potential to shape his entire future. Erestor's usual preference was
to greet problems head-on, but the longer he could avoid dealing with
this one the better he liked it.

"Perhaps we could talk another time?" he suggested on an impulse.
"Share a little wine perhaps?" He was horrified to hear his words come
out sounding for all the world like the prelude to a proposition. He
saw the thought cross Glorfindel's mind - he had an open face and gave
the appearance of being easy to read, though Erestor had an idea this
was not always so. "Oh no, I'm sorry, I never meant it to sound like."

Glorfindel had no idea if an overture had been intended or not, but
doubted it. Though a novice to the art of building friendships, he
also knew better than to spoil the interlude by allowing it to end on
a note of suspicion or discomfort.  "Of course not. I'd like to
continue this over some wine .another time, of course, when the King
isn't waiting for me."

Erestor nodded slowly, his expression deadpan. "If you agree to forget
how badly I expressed myself, I could pretend you never told me the
King was waiting for you at this hour of the night."

Glorfindel felt heat rush to his face and was grateful for the dark,
then he glanced across at Erestor and their eyes met. They surveyed
each other in all seriousness for a moment and then the laughter came,
open and easy between them.

Erestor straightened up, pushed his shining black hair back from his
face and grinned, a flash of perfect white teeth.

"Maybe lunch instead."
~*~*~*~

Over dinner Elrond had dutifully listened and made sympathetic noises
as Elros described his councillors, the awkwardness of the evening and
the fact that Gil-galad must have been in a particularly sadistic mood
to have arranged it in the first place. Privately he thought it had
been a good idea, both practical and supportive, and that Elros should
have thought of it for himself.

He only managed to avoid listening to a further list of complaints
from the normally amiable Elros, this time revolving round Gil-galad,
on the grounds that Laslech needed her evening walk, made evident by
the fact that the dog, who had recently graduated to walking unleashed
at his side, was already waiting at the door. About to head out into
the wind-tossed night, Elrond paused.

"'Ros?"

Elros, lying on the couch beneath the window, his feet up on the rest,
was feeling tired and disinclined to move. He turned his head to look
at his brother.

"After you reach the new land, you'll make sure someone walks her,
won't you? I know you won't have much time yourself to begin with. She
likes her walk in the evening."

Elros took a breath. This was a minor detail amongst a sea of items to
be dealt with, most of which had no margin for error. He had spent
little time with Laslech, in fact he had never been particularly fond
of dogs, but she had been a gift from people who would be numbered
amongst his new subjects and he would make certain she was properly
cared for. Also, his brother was fond of her, and Elros loved his
brother. "I will see to it that she has her walk. Someone will take
her, I promise."

Elrond looked at him, further questions on his lips, but in the end,
realising that Elros was tired, simply nodded. His brother was the
only person whose word he accepted without question. And possibly
Glorfindel's. And Ereinion's, of course.  He frowned at himself. He
was really becoming quite disgustingly trusting.

~*~*~*~

The garden was evocative of Erestor, and Elrond had to remind himself
firmly that the black-haired Elf was almost certainly in his room by
this time, possibly already in bed. This thought was of limited value,
sending his imagination down paths he preferred to leave unexplored
for the present.

They followed the first half of their regular route about the grounds,
but the wind had become unpleasant and when they were near the main
entrance Elrond decided to cut the evening ramble short by returning
home through the Palace. It had been suggested to him that Laslech
should be leashed while indoors or in public areas, but it was late
enough for him to dismiss the idea with a shrug.

Two of Gil-galad's senior councillors were standing just inside the
entrance, deep in conversation, and he considered braving the rising
storm and returning the way he had come, but he was tired of having
sand and small debris blown into his eyes. It wouldn't have bothered
Elros, but in some ways Elrond's likes and dislikes were more in line
with those normal to the Second-born than his brother's would ever be.

"Come on, girl," he said softly, reaching down to pat the dog
affectionately. "Next to me. Walk nicely."

They walked sedately past the two Elves, who glanced up, registered
vague disapproval, something Elrond encountered far too often for it
to bother him, and then returned to their discussion. Laslech kept
perfectly in step with her companion for another minute, till she
suddenly became aware of a potential distraction and, with an excited
yelp, shot through the half-open door to their left.

"Laslech," he called, trying to express sharpness in a near whisper.
"Come here!"

Such actions from her normally heralded the discovery of a friend,
and his thoughts went immediately to Erestor, seeing black hair,
heavy-lidded dark eyes, velvet lips. He took a deep, firm breath,
attempting to control the delicious combination of excitement and
unease flooding him at the memory of that mouth on his, and followed
Laslech into the dim, firelit room.

She was standing on her hind legs, almost bouncing in her efforts to
lick the face of an Elf who was sprawled in a chair by the fire, his
legs stretched out to catch the warmth of the blaze. He had a hand on
Laslech's head and was patting her heavily. As Elrond crossed the room
he realised two things more or less simultaneously: the Elf was
Ereinion, and he was far from sober.

Despite being insatiably curious, Elrond's normal preference was to
watch from the outside and remain uninvolved. He had never seen
Ereinion drunk before, but his cousin's choice to overindulge was
no-one's business but his own. Furthermore, he was the High King and
if he wanted to sit in a darkened, though public, room and drink, that
was his right. Elrond determined to retrieve his - Elros' - dog and
leave.

Then he remembered the councillors he had passed, who would be more
than happy to share gossip about the King with anyone willing to
listen. Gil-galad managed his council with good humour and an
unexpectedly firm hand, often provoking resentment in those circles
where, despite the details of his pedigree, he was regarded as no more
than Círdan's protégé.  Elrond, who would never leave someone he
accepted as family open to harm or ridicule, set about taking control
of the situation.

"Laslech, down, get down, that's enough! Sit!" Fitting actions to
words, he pulled the dog off, pushing her bottom firmly down as he
told her to sit and was a little surprised when she obeyed. She
appeared to understand that something was less than right with the
situation.

Gil-galad reached down and continued to pat the dog. His other hand
cradled an empty pewter goblet. He looked at Elrond blearily, then
frowned in recognition and attempted to sit up. Elrond, a veteran of
armed camps where wine had, on occasion, flowed freely and with
predictable consequences, realised that Ereinion was horribly drunk.
He noticed a flagon on the floor on the far side of the chair, and he
wondered how much of the contents, if any, remained. He knew he would
have a better chance of getting his cousin to his rooms unnoticed if
he managed to avoid antagonizing him and therefore hoped the scowl was
something he need not take personally. That hope was shattered
immediately.

"Oh, it's you," Gil-galad said flatly. "What else do you want?"

Elrond knew there was no point in trying to have a sensible discussion
with someone in the state his cousin's speech suggested. He also
remembered the morning he had tried to speak up for Glorfindel and the
white-cold anger he had encountered and shivered involuntarily. He had
no idea how far alcohol might change Gil-galad's normally amiable
personality, but the King certainly looked less than pleased to see him.

"Nothing, I don't want anything, Sire. I just wondered if something
was wrong, if I could fetch someone. something.?" Some instinct kept
him from mentioning Glorfindel by name.

Gil-galad glared at him. "Don't need anyone. Don't need anything," he
declared firmly. "Alone. Kings must be alone. Used to it." He seemed
to think about this for a moment. "Not good though." 

The place within Elrond that retained vital information about people's
desires and motives became alert, but he turned the main focus of his
attention to the problem of getting a large, apparently unfriendly Elf
upstairs without drawing attention to either of them. The three of
them, he thought wryly. Laslech would need to be on her best
behaviour, too.

"No, I'm sure being alone isn't good, Sire," he said, trying for a
reassuring tone. "And I don't see why you believe Kings are meant to
be. You aren't, anyway. You have lord Círdan, you have family,
friends, there's Glori."

"No Glorfindel," Gil-galad said firmly, nodding his head and gesturing
with the hand holding the empty wine cup. "Can't. Your Glorfindel."

Making no attempt to understand this, Elrond raised his eyes to the
ceiling and drew in a deep breath.  "Sire, can we talk about this
later?" he asked steadily. "If we go to your rooms there'll be
lamplight, a better fire. Maybe you can have another cup of wine.?"

This was greeted with a blank stare. "Nothing wrong with this fire,"
he was informed. Somewhere off on the edge of hearing Elrond became
aware the Elves he had left at the entrance had moved a little closer.
He reached down, took the cup, and placed it firmly on the floor next
to the flagon, fending off Gil-galad's attempts to snatch it back. He
gave the flagon an experimental shake. It too was empty.

Pushing aside the memory of ice-blue eyes in a quiet room, he knelt
beside Laslech who was sitting quietly, seemingly unconcerned. The
hand resting heavily on her back was large and capable, with long
fingers and squared off, very clean fingernails. Elrond had always
liked his cousin's hands. Carefully he covered it with his own. There
was no resistance. They sat like this for a while, the Elf, the
Half-elf and the dog, and listened to the fire hissing and crackling
and the wind rattling against the windows. Finally he looked up into
half-closed eyes. "Why no Glorfindel?" he asked gently. "What's wrong,
Ereinion?"

Gil-galad sighed heavily. "Círdan says. Can't be weak. Need heirs,
Círdan says. You. understand him. Like gold. Golden."

Elrond took a moment to make sense of this. "Círdan doesn't know what
he's talking about. Those things are your choice, nothing to do with him."

"Can't." The blue eyes looked suddenly bleak and alone and almost
sober. Elrond felt his heart contract in sympathy, and experienced a
burst of real anger against Círdan, very different to the normal
reflexive irritation. He squeezed the hand still resting under his
before rising gracefully.

"Let's just get to your rooms. Come on. Let me walk with you and make
sure no one bothers you." Or gets close enough to try and talk to you
and smell the wine, he added to himself.

Gil-galad stared up at him, assessing the offer. Finally he sighed and
nodded and, taking the proffered hand, struggled laboriously to his
feet, swaying ominously as he did so. One of the King's side braids
had come unfastened, Elrond noticed; the dark, heavy hair swayed with
every motion, and he looked tired, sad and a little confused.

Resisting the urge to tuck the loose hair behind an ear, Elrond
considered the practicalities, then tucked a shoulder under one
muscular arm and, turning to look at Ereinion from an angle that was
far closer than anything either had experienced before said, "Right,
hold onto me. Try and make it look natural. And don't talk to anyone.
We don't want the whole of Lindon gossiping that you had to be helped
to your bed."

~*~*~*~

Gil-galad proved far less difficult to settle for the night than
Elrond had expected. The King was not so drunk that he failed to
understand the need for discretion, and the distance to his rooms was
covered uneventfully, save for some hesitation on the stairs that had
the Half-elf's heart in his throat as he imagined himself, entangled
with the High King, tumbling down to the bottom.

Once inside, Gil-galad headed straight for his bed, giving Elrond his
first look at the royal bedchamber - simple but pleasant, he noted,
and decorated in shades of green and blue. His cousin more or less
fell onto the bed and into sleep, leaving him to take off boots and
loosen what clothing he found impossible to remove. Finally, having
done his best, he drew the covers up from the other side of the bed
and over Ereinion, scooped random items of clothing onto a chair, and
let himself out. The two guards outside the door stared straight
ahead. Elrond had already made the need for discretion quite clear to
them.

He returned home - it was finally beginning to feel like a home - with
Laslech to find Elros had already retired for the night. He had been
feeling the strain of the final preparations over the last few weeks
and seemed to be almost permanently tired. Elrond tried to settle down
with a book, but found himself drawn once more outdoors, some
combination of the howling wind and the smell of the sea making him
restless, unable to settle.

The Palace was quiet. Elves loved the night, walked happily under moon
and starlight, but the weather was wild enough to have driven inside
almost everyone besides the guards, whose stations were all known to
the Half-elf and easily avoided. He walked at an even pace, going
nowhere in particular while giving the impression of having a set
destination.

The terrace that ran the length of the private wing of the Palace was
in semi-darkness when his steps finally led him there, but as he
rounded the corner he saw he was not alone. A pale figure stood
straight and solitary beside the balustrade, one hand resting on the
stone barrier. Torchlight picked out gold lights in the long hair,
confirming the identity of the other wanderer in the night as
Galadriel. Elrond moved back silently, seeking shadow while he waited
to see if she meant to stay or leave.

His attention was centred on staying as silent as possible and he
jumped violently at a touch to his shoulder. He turned sharply and
found himself a hand's-breadth away from Glorfindel, who was wrapped
securely against the night in a dark cloak, and whose hair was
sensibly braided against the wind.

"Are you trying to scare me to death?" he hissed.

Glorfindel grinned briefly. "I wanted to warn you not to disturb her."

Elrond looked over his shoulder at the tall, still form, then back to
Glorfindel. "That's Ereinion's aunt, Galadriel," he explained softly.
"I think we're distantly related - I forget quite how."

Glorfindel nodded, smiling. "Yes, I know who she is. I've known her
all my life - my first life anyway."

Elrond shot him a half-amused glance. "You said that quite naturally.
I suppose you can get used to anything if you have to. It's starting
to get easier, isn't it? What do you think she's  doing out here this
late at night?"

"No, it doesn't just get easier," Glorfindel corrected. "It takes a
lot of work, but I'm trying. And her? She's being Galadriel, that's
what she's doing."

They were standing as close as lovers, yet without the tension. Elrond
felt a sense of security that, up till then, only Ereinion's presence
had offered. Glorfindel had an aura of strength and steadiness which
had not been obvious when they first met but which was increasing as
the golden warrior found his place in the world once more. Elrond
wondered what he had been like in Gondolin. He thought that the
freedom available in Lindon might suit him far better than the
confines of the Hidden City.

He looked back again at the immobile shape, outlined against the night
by her light-coloured clothing and long, fair hair. "She looks as
though she's listening to something?" he ventured. Glorfindel laughed
almost soundlessly, warm breath ghosting across Elrond's face.

"That's possible, of course," he agreed. "But I think she's just
enjoying the night. She always loved storms."

Elrond turned to study Galadriel, moving back against Glorfindel in an
unconscious bid to find shelter from the wind, and was aware of hard
muscle and, despite the weather, a faint warmth. A hand rested
lightly, naturally on his shoulder, and they stood together watching
Finarfin's daughter.

"If you were looking for Ereinion, I can save you the trouble," Elrond
said, remembering belatedly and tilting his head back to speak close
to Glorfindel's ear. "He's having an early night."

He felt Glorfindel tense slightly, thought about what he had said, and
realised it might be misconstrued. "A little too much wine," he
explained. "I tucked him into bed myself. It was interesting."

"He was drunk? I've never seen him take more than two or three cups."
Glorfindel remembered a night not very long ago when Gil had in fact
drunk somewhat more than two cups of wine, and how the night had ended
for them, and found himself blushing in the dark, something he still
did far too easily even though he was starting to overcome many of the
more obvious signs of shyness.

Elrond chuckled softly. "I found him sitting in the dark downstairs.
And no, I've never seen him drunk before either. He said something
about doing some thinking." He decided it was better to keep his
guesses concerning the subject to himself. "No, you're right, I don't
think she's listening to anything."

"Is he all right? What do you think she's doing then?"

"She's watching something. And he's fine; he'll feel terrible in the
morning, though. You might want to speak softly when you see him."

Glorfindel gave a quiet snort of laughter, and then said, "There's
nothing for her to see out there, nothing but an empty garden."

Some instinct spoke to Elrond, great-grandson of Lúthien, making him
focus his full attention on Galadriel, who remained standing straight
and motionless, gazing out into the night. Her hair, he realised,
seemed impervious to the wind - it barely moved. He was reminded for
an instant of a pavilion on a beach, with the whisper of the sea in
the background, then abruptly he felt as though he had moved into
another space, somewhere neither warm nor cold, where the wind no
longer blew. The space was already occupied by a presence of immense
power, will and defiance. He saw a tumble of pictures - faces and
scenes foreign and meaningless, unconnected to him, followed by words,
distinct and clear.

He came back on a breath at the tightening of Glorfindel's hand on his
shoulder. "Elrond? What's wrong?"

"She's watching the sea and looking back into the West."

His voice shook and he found he was shivering and couldn't stop.
Glorfindel felt him shaking and, removing his cloak, wrapped it round
the Half-elf. Glancing over Elrond's shoulder he saw Galadriel turn
her head and look directly at them. Somewhere on the edge of thought
he felt rather than heard soft laughter. He glared at her. The gift of
speaking from mind to mind had never drawn him, but he had encountered
it before.

Placing a protective hand on Elrond's shoulder and using a skill he
had no idea he possessed, and which had formed no part of his first
life, he answered laughter with disapproval before he raised a barrier
and closed her out from both himself and Elrond. He rested his cheek
briefly against the soft, wind-tangled hair. "Come, enough of this.
Time to get out of the cold. Let's find some wine and leave her to the
night."

Chapter 14


Glorfindel woke to discover that he was lying stretched across the
bed, his sleeping self already accustomed to competing for space with
a large, sprawling and often restless figure. It took him a moment to
realise he was alone and in the room assigned to him on his arrival in
Lindon. Since they had become lovers, his nights had been spent in
Gil-galad's bed and he had woken each morning to warm flesh and a
sleepy, amourous greeting.

Although it was well before sunrise, a sense of restless purpose and a
need to clear his head drove him to dress in light, casual clothing,
bind back his hair and head outdoors. He needed to examine his past in
order to determine his future, and when he wanted to order his
thoughts Glorfindel had a tried and trusted practice. He ran.

He started at an easy pace, but by the time he had reached the
cottages and small garden patches behind the kitchens he was moving
fast, head up, arms and legs moving smoothly. Buildings, trees, Elves
who at such an early hour were probably either cleaners or kitchen
staff blurred past him as he strove to reach the state where it seemed
he inhabited two worlds; the physical world of controlled breath and
delight in his body being put to optimum use, and the inner landscape
where his thoughts expressed themselves in pictures, half articulated
ideas and snatches of sound.

Looking back at his first life was becoming increasingly difficult as
time passed. Lately, however, even simple, everyday details were
requiring more and more effort to recall. The circumstances leading to
his fatal encounter on the Cirith Thoronath had been hazy and
dreamlike from the first and his death, though clearly detailed,
seemed almost to belong to another. He assumed this distance was his
mind's attempt to protect him from the memory.  Still clear, however,
was the way he had tip-toed through life, certain of his lack of
worth, unconvinced even when given praise and commands by his king, or
when courted by someone as desirable and popular as Ecthelion.

As he left behind the rough, springy texture of the grass in favour of
the beaten track leading from the stables down towards the shore,
Glorfindel grinned briefly and humourlessly to himself. He wasn't
stupid; he had noticed Elrond's lack of enthusiasm while he had been
singing the praises of his first love. Now that he had experience of
being treated with affection and tenderness, he could see the lack in
Ecthelion with clear eyes. Up until his death though, he had firmly
believed that what he received was far more than he could ever hope to
deserve.

In his second life his attempts at safe anonymity had failed almost
from the start. Gil-galad had used a combination of kindness and
common sense to draw him out of the hole in which he had sought
refuge, and followed this with tenderness and passion that, for
Glorfindel, were like the ending of an unnoticed drought. Despite all
this, he knew he clung to his shyness as though it were a cloak, a
shield to shelter behind. His father's disappointment in him had cut
deeply, leaving all but indelible scars. It had coloured his actions
and opinions, made him distrust any evidence that he was well-regarded
or worthy of love.

He frowned as he considered the way he cautiously filled the
less-occupied corners of Gil-galad's time as though grateful for the
notice, being careful not to presume too much, and he wondered at his
lover's tolerance. Worse still, Glorfindel realised, was the manner in
which he had refused the command position offered to him. True, it was
diametrically opposed to his views on life, but he had done so with
scant grace and a denial of the compliment offered to him that was
little less than an insult. He felt himself colour at the memory and
his pace slowed and an awareness of his surroundings returned.

His route had finally taken him down to the beach. Reaching the
water's edge, he kept running, heading towards the far point where the
rocks came down to meet the sea and it was impossible to go further
without climbing. He considered wading out a short distance so that he
could enjoy the fresh salty coolness of the water but instead,
clambering up the rocks, he sat and caught his breath and then offered
the customary gesture of silent respect to Lord Ulmo.

His experience of the ocean was limited; he still regarded it with a
quiet mixture of awe and respect, and could listen to its voices and
watch its endless motion for hours. The sounds of wave and wind
blended in his mind and, leaning back on his elbows, he found himself
smiling at the antics of the flocked seabirds fighting amongst
themselves out beyond the breakers. He stayed like this and watched
the sun rise, aware of being alive, strong and unscathed, all of these
things an incomprehensible gift beyond gifts.

Eventually he was ready to address the growing impatience he felt
towards himself.

In his more introspective moments, he knew there was no logical basis
for his insecurities. His household in Gondolin had certainly been
both proud and fond of him. His warriors had been loyal and
respectful, knowing that he genuinely cared about them and had an
interest in their lives and problems. Until he heard Gil-galad
discussing the qualities of a good commander with Elros, he had never
realised that behaviour he regarded as common sense and simple decency
was, in fact, the exception rather than the rule.

Meeting people and building friendships held less terror for him now,
mainly due to Gil-galad's influence and example. He and Erestor had
been comfortable together from their first meeting and he often felt
as though he had known Elrond for years. In fact, his unexpected
ability to respond in kind to Galadriel the previous night had been
born out of his instinctive impulse to protect a friend. Elven skills
of the mind were not his way, and he had little curiosity about the
means he had employed as a shield against his highly skilled cousin,
but the ability had been available to him when he needed it, a weapon
like any other.

His response had been that of a warrior, protecting his declared lord
far more than it had been a simple rebuke of an abuse by a much-loved
cousin. It was work he understood and it had been made possible by the
fact that, although in all other ways he was insecure, unwilling or
unable to put himself forward lest he draw attention to his perceived
shortcomings, as a warrior he permitted himself to be proactive,
fearless, proficient. 

This single event had resolved itself into a long-overdue catalyst.
Change had been wrought by something as small and as simple as a one
word question which had kept him awake for much of the night: Why? If
he was capable of acknowledging himself a proficient warrior, then why
not also accept he might have other laudable qualities, as Gil-galad
told him with affectionately amused regularity?

Firmly he reminded himself that he had been born in the West in the
time before the darkness, he had crossed the Helcaraxë one foot before
the other, speaking encouragement and comfort to all around him -
there had been no room for shyness and insecurity on the Ice -  he had
survived bitter warfare and had returned from death itself. He might
never agree with those who named him a hero, but it was time, perhaps,
to reassess his worth.

He got to his feet and stretched, flexing his muscles, arching his
back and looking up to the paling sky, then turned and headed back the
way he had come, slowly at first, then increasing his speed till his
feet were barely touching the hard sand at the water's edge.

~*~*~*~

By the time he neared the end of his routine and Elrond had still not
appeared, Erestor had begun to suspect that last night had been too
much too soon and that the Princeling was avoiding him. He was quite
disconcerted by the relief he felt when the door opened and the
Half-elf, clad in a casual grey robe and with his hair loose save for
a single braid down the back, came out onto the patio, where he
remained a silent watcher until the final sequence was concluded.

Their greeting was cautious, neither of them being completely sure
what, if anything, the kiss had meant, whether it had been a
not-so-simple response to the intimacy of the moment, or the beginning
of something greater. As the elder and also, as he was starting to
understand, by far the more experienced, Erestor supposed he should be
taking the lead, but he found himself at a loss. Kissing princes was
out of his experience.

It was Elrond, however, who had the idea of walking part way with
Erestor to his office, which effectively reduced the tension while
still offering them time to talk. Their route should have taken them
through the garden and round to the steps, but Elrond led the way back
into the apartment instead, and through the private wing of the
palace, saying something about a shortcut to the administrative area.
Erestor tried to look around him without being obvious about it, and
was left with impressions of rich hangings, glowing wood, beautifully
woven carpets, and exquisite paintings.

Once they reached the public area they had to cross the courtyard, and
the activity around the side entrance to the Main Hall caught both
their attention. Elrond, with cat-like curiosity, suggested that a
quick look at the preparations for the evening would do no harm and
would take no more than minutes. This in turn led to Erestor's
introduction to the Half-elf's erratic time sense.

"I never see the point to these things," Elrond said, watching four
Elves wrestling the royal canopy into place above the head table.
"Don't you miss the informality of the Companies? Sometimes it feels
very.crowded here, very loud."

Erestor shot him a quick glance. He had forgotten how much time the
twins had spent in the wild places of Middle-earth. Whilst under the
control of Maedhros they had lived like fugitives, moving from one
hidden camp to the next.

"I almost forgot that you didn't live your whole life at a royal
court," he confessed. "You certainly carry yourself as though you did.
Not a bad thing," he added quickly, before he could be misunderstood.
He was so late for his duties by now that it had simply ceased being a
cause for concern. Instead of worrying, he had spent the last hour
trying to keep up, to say or do nothing to make this spirit of
enchantment decide he had other business and curtail their time.

"I hate formal dinners," Elrond stated gloomily, gesturing vaguely at
the scene being played out before them and pulling his mouth slightly
at Erestor's comments.

Erestor, who had never attended a formal dinner, who had, in fact, no
idea of the procedures involved, gave him an amused look. They were
sitting at the top of the steps to the gallery, a painting-lined
balcony, running around three sides of the Main Hall of the Palace.
The music would be provided from this upper floor, which would also be
one of several informal venues, allowing guests to talk and share a
cup of wine, and watch the scene below before dinner was served and
afterwards when there would be dancing. Cleaners and musicians were
hurrying up and down the stairs, forcing the pair to lean closer to
the railings and to one another, to make space. Neither of them
suggested moving to a less crowded spot.

Below them the tables had been set out, the shorter one at the head of
the room, the two long ones down the sides, and they were currently
being decorated with flowers, each place being marked for
convenience's sake with a sprig of rosemary. Seats were being brought
in; benches for the lower end, individual stools for the upper level
and high backed chairs for the top table, where Gil-galad would sit
flanked by the guests of honour, one of whom would be Elrond's brother.

"I've never been to a formal dinner," Erestor admitted. "You'll have
to tell me about it tomorrow."

Elrond gave him a sharp look from under impossibly long lashes.
"You'll be here, surely?" he asked in surprise. "Your position's
senior enough and anyhow Ereinion likes you, and he made the final
changes to the list himself. He always does."

Erestor shook his head, smiling slightly. "I received no invitation.
Just as well; I have nothing suitable to wear anyway."

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment was forced to
lean against the railings so that they could make way for a musician
carrying a lute and another stringed instrument unlike anything he had
seen before. Erestor moved over also, which put him almost as close to
Elrond as he had been the previous night. He was quite content for the
traffic on the short flight of stairs to continue indefinitely.
Straightening up, Elrond said firmly,

"You have to be there. Not just for the experience, but because it
would look bad if you were left off. It's a simple division. Those who
matter get invited; the rest don't."

Erestor blinked. This was a fair description of the way the pecking
order amongst the administrative staff worked but he had hardly
expected the Princeling to know this. Elrond saw his surprise and
quirked an eyebrow at him. "I pay attention when Ereinion talks," he
said rather smugly. "And he knows how things work here better than
anyone. He says you can't control something you don't understand."

Erestor nodded agreement. This was one of his pivotal beliefs, and the
reason he was making such a smooth transition into his new position.
When he failed to understand something he asked questions. He said as
much to Elrond, who rewarded him with an approving smile.

Made bold by proximity, Erestor returned the smile and tentatively
reached out to lift and tidy back the long dark hair which had looped
over his companion's shoulder. Elrond's uncertainty had been eased by
the activity around them, but something in his eyes went still and
watchful for a moment, before he relaxed and began to describe what he
remembered of the seating plan.  Erestor kept very quiet, listened
attentively, and continued to play with the shining hair which
streamed loose down the Half-elf's back.

".and Glori will probably sit over there next to that pillar, if
that's where they're putting the canopy. He was an important Lord in
Gondolin and Ereinion says his rank should still get respect. And
you'll sit around about there." He pointed to a spot considerably
further down the Hall. "Not the best place but not the worst either."

"I told you I wasn't invited," Erestor reminded him in amusement,
pushing his companion lightly. Elrond pushed back, a little harder.

"And I told you it's important for you to be here. Which means you're
invited. I'll make sure you get the actual invitation if you insist,
but you need to start planning what you'll be wearing. Black's easy,
and it suits you and I can loan you some jewellery, if you'd like.
Ereinion always says it's important to look as though you're worth
something."

There had been rather a lot of `Ereinion says', Erestor noted. He
hoped both for his sake and for Glorfindel's that it implied nothing
more than respect for an older and much-admired relative.

~^~^~

Glorfindel's next stop after the beach was the complex of long rooms
and smaller outdoor enclosures where the arts of war were practised.
He selected a weapon, found an unoccupied corner and proceeded to go
through the turns, slices and lunges that are part of any swordsman's
repertoire, mentally assessing himself as though his actions were
those of a stranger.

Yes, he decided, satisfied with what he saw: not only was he still
very good at what he did,  but almost every day it seemed that a
little more strength, a fraction more speed had returned while he
slept. He spent an hour engrossed in training, which included some
knife work and an outdoor attempt at archery, for which he had little
skill despite having a great liking, and then he was free till the
afternoon when he was scheduled to meet with his first students.

Still slightly flushed and sweat-dampened from his exertions he went
to see Carod, and for the first time recognised the admiration and
excitement in the young groom's eyes as they talked. The horse was to
all intents and purposes recovered and ready to be ridden again and
Glorfindel, pleased and relieved, staying a short time to talk to him
and stroke his nose. When he left it was not before thanking the
immensely proud youngster, and asking him to take the horse for a
short, sedate ride.

Going back to his rooms, he washed and changed out of the leggings and
plain shirt and put on the blue tunic that he had previously thought
too bright. He brushed his hair and then, rejecting the careful braids
he habitually wore, left it loose, caught lightly back from his face
with a tortoiseshell clasp. For his entire life he had been told he
had exceptionally lovely hair. It was time, he decided, to take people
at their word and stop worrying so much about drawing uncomfortable
attention.

He knew that there were many areas of his life that needed change, but
he decided it would be best to tackle them one at a time, starting in
the place where he felt the most secure. Taking a firm breath, he went
to wake Gil-galad.

~*~*~*~

The morning sun brought Gil-galad back to grudging consciousness.
Someone had drawn back the drapes, and the sunlight, though weak and
uncertain, fell directly across his pillow as though out of spite. He
tried to turn his head away from the intruding light and sullen pain
lanced through it, making him grunt with surprise.

He turned over slowly, his eyes slitted against light and pain, to
ascertain the identity of the person who would be receiving the full
brunt of his discomfort, and was confronted by a golden-haired Elf
clad in sky blue who was sitting in a chair under the window watching him.

Gil-galad eased himself up on one elbow, pushing back long, extremely
untidy black hair with a hand that was less than steady. They stared
at one another. Glorfindel had a determined look about him, and
Gil-galad wondered if he had perhaps said something contentious in his
sleep. The thought of less than wise utterances led him uneasily to a
tangled memory of Elrond which his mind was unready to retrieve, and
he backed away from it, hoping there was less to remember than he
suspected.

"Good morning. I won't ask how you slept," Glorfindel said neutrally.
Gil-galad had no idea how the blonde felt about drunkenness, but had
an idea he was about to find out. He nodded carefully, and his head
throbbed and thudded in time to the movement. He winced, closing his
eyes against the pain and therefore missed the smile that tugged at
the corner of Glorfindel's mouth, and was quickly swallowed.

"Long night, from the look of it?

He grunted and tried to sit up, though better of it and lay back down
in a snarl of hair, a muscular arm across his face.

"You're the king, and if you decide to spend the morning in bed
recovering from the night's excesses, no one would try and object,"
Glorfindel informed him, trying to speak severely but having to fight
off an urge to start laughing. It was the first time he had seen Gil
looking vulnerable, and he found it both endearing and encouraging. It
made him feel that he did in fact have a chance of being an equal
partner in their new but fast-growing relationship. "However, I was
asked to mention that your assistant is looking for you, you have a
council meeting just before lunch, and I was told you specifically
wanted to go riding with Elros this afternoon."

"You my new assistant?" Gil-galad growled, squeezing his eyes closed
and trying to force the headache back to a manageable level. He had a
picture of galloping along the beach with Elros and all but shuddered.
"No riding," he added firmly. "Just.not."

He opened one eye to look again at Glorfindel, still settled quite
comfortably in the chair. Something besides the unexpectedly bright
tunic seemed different about him, but Gil-galad was in no mood to try
and understand what or why. One question felt important, though, and
this he asked. "You weren't here last night, were you? "

"No, but I heard about it from Elrond. He said you needed to think,
that there were some problems you were trying to solve."  Glorfindel
crossed his legs and leaned back and the sun catching his shining hair
was a sight Gil-galad found somewhat too bright for comfort. "If
you're willing, in future I'd be happy to listen if there are things
you need to talk about. I'll even try and keep you company with the
wine. Solitary drinking sounds like a lonely business to me."

Gil-galad studied him in thoughtful silence. The Elf, who looked like
Glorfindel but had the mannerisms of someone far more self-assured,
and who sounded rather like.rather like Elrond actually, rose and came
over to the bed and poured a cup of water from the beaker on the
nightstand. Gil saw there was also a bowl of sliced fruit and some
bread and what looked like honey. His stomach protested at the
thought, but he accepted the proffered cup, trying to keep the water
from spilling.

"I think we need to decide something," the clear, implacable voice
continued, while a firm though gentle hand came to rest on his
shoulder. "Either I am to be treated simply as a trophy, an unlikely
conquest to add to your apparently impressive list. Or." Gil-galad
opened his mouth to protest, but found no words and instead looked
mutely up into the deep blue eyes that met his with level calm. "Or,
we can try and have the type of relationship where you can confide in
me rather than seeking a solution in wine. And of course I know this
is not a habit of yours, but the principle remains."

Shaking his head at the less than impressive sight before him,
Glorfindel went and found a light robe which he tossed onto the bed.

"I know you hate the idea of confiding in anyone," he added more
gently. "I also find it difficult. Perhaps we could try and teach each
other? It might be more effective than drinking alone in the dark and
then telling Elrond just enough to confuse him into sharing with me
the parts he thinks I should know."

Gil-galad took the robe and dragged it on. He assumed this new,
organised Glorfindel had already arranged for a bath to be drawn for
him. It was clear he would have no choice but to get up and face the
day, since he felt too ill to stand against this onslaught.

Later, he promised himself, he and Elrond were going to be having a
discussion about the meanings of family loyalty and confidentiality.

Chapter 15

"Erestor, wait a moment."

Erestor stopped in surprise. The unadorned, grassy courtyard outside
his office was one of the last places he would have expected to find
Elrond. Despite, or perhaps because of, having spent years living in
armed camps, the Half-elf's interest in matters military appeared no
more than minimal and confined to training several times a week with
sword and bow as was expected of any well-born male of fighting age.
However, here he was.

The Princeling came to a graceful halt before him, then paused to look
around. Laslech, leashed after an earlier excursion to the kitchens
had led to a brief exchange between Elrond and a badly hungover King,
which had ended in clear instructions regarding leads and forbidden
areas, sat at his feet and scratched herself. "You'd think they could
have made it a bit less cheerless," Elrond commented. "Not exactly
warm and welcoming, is it?"

"We're here to work, you see, not to enjoy our surroundings."

Erestor shifted the heavy books of inventory records more securely in
the crook of his arm. Someone, possibly the King, had taken a sudden
interest in the contents of the weapons stores. Elrond turned his head
to the side to read the embossed titles.

"Oh, is he still fussing about that? He got an inventory back from one
of the watch stations that failed to tally and he's been checking up
on everyone else since then. I brought you these - for tonight."

He held out a dark velvet bag, which Erestor looked at uncertainly.
Elrond thrust it  towards him. "I said I'd lend you some jewellery for
tonight. I thought this would look nice?" The last few words were
offered on a querying note and Erestor responded at once by taking the
bag and opening the drawstring to look inside.

Dark red stones that his mind informed him had to be rubies gleamed
back at him, seeming to glow with an inner life. He looked up
wordlessly. "They're strung on silk thread. You braid them into your
hair," Elrond explained helpfully. "I'm sorry, I only found five
strands. My first thought was moonstones, but these are better.
They'll compliment you eyes. They're lovely and warm . the rubies I mean."

His voice trailed off and they shared silence, then Erestor said
carefully. "These look quite valuable. I've never handled rubies
before, nor any other precious stone. I'm grateful of course, but."

"They're a loan," Elrond said firmly. "If they were a gift you could
worry about it. Elros and I share things all the time." Erestor saw
how he flinched as he spoke his brother's name and was reminded of the
reason for the evening's festivities to which he had, true to the
Half-elf's word, received an invitation. He reached out instinctively,
resting the palm of his hand lightly against a smooth cheek. His eyes
moved unbidden to warm, full lips and he heard Elrond draw in a
breath, but they were interrupted by a low, cool voice.

"Elrond? How fortunate. Perhaps you can help me."

Tall, beautiful and very pregnant, Galadriel stood in a beam of
sunlight, her face a picture of innocent charm, her eyes thoughtful.

Elrond shoved the bag and Laslech's lead into Erestor's hand. "Wear
them," he said quietly, his eyes intense. "Please? They'll suit you.
And can you look after her while I see to this?  She's not allowed
inside till Ereinion calms down. I'll not be long."

Not waiting for a response from Erestor he straightened up, turned and
shook back his wayward hair. "Yes, Lady? How can I help you?"

*****

She had a wish, she said, to see what progress had been made with the
new library, built to replace the rather cramped and inadequate rooms
that had been part of the original design of the Palace. Once indoors
they made their way slowly in the direction of the new development,
with Galadriel speaking amiably about generalities. Elrond kept up,
listened politely and tried to relax. The Aman-born regularly made not
only him but most of his generation ill at ease. There was something
about them that was simply - other.

The corridors were quiet at this time of the day, and the weak
sunlight slanting in through the long windows divided the floor into
alternating bars of light and darkness. Their footsteps echoed
slightly, counterpoint to the swish of her gown. For some reason
Elrond felt a small rush of relief each time another Elf came into view.

She had been discussing the difficulties involved in finding reliable
servants for the duration of their stay in the little house she and
Celeborn  had taken overlooking the beach, and he was unprepared when
she suddenly slanted a look at him from her strange, sea-hued eyes.

"This was your first encounter with your hidden side, was it not?"

They stopped between the windows, in light-bracketed shadow. Galadriel
seemed even taller than she did in sunlight, her eyes glittered eerily
and her half smile had a secretive air.

"Last night?"
 
She raised an eyebrow slightly, moved back into sunlight that caught
the silver in her hair and nodded. "Those gifts and skills will take
time and practice to master. This is merely a beginning."

She walked on in silence, light and shadow, swish and step, allowing
him to consider her words, which he did. 

"What happened to me last night?"

Without answering, Galadriel passed through the open doorway into the
new library, Elrond trailing behind her. Work had been completed for
the day, and the cavernous main room was deserted. When finished, it
would be remarkable. Long reading tables, as well as work stations for
the copyists, were situated beneath the high windows which stretched
almost the length of the outer wall, creating a well lit area
dedicated to work and study. The rest of the space was taken up with
empty blond wood bookcases and scroll holders, save for an area well
away from the shelves where there was a cosy fireplace, surrounded by
couches and chairs. They were currently covered with dust sheets, as
were the tables, giving the room an abandoned, unwelcoming air. Double
doors, one of which stood ajar, led out onto what would eventually be
a garden of fragrant foliage, with benches looking out over the sea to
the harbour.

Galadriel picked her way across a floor littered with offcuts and
boxes, heading for the couches before the fireplace. Elrond hurried to
catch up with her, unaccustomed to pregnant women, uncertain what was
expected of him, terrified she would trip. He brushed the cover off
hastily, watching sawdust rise into the light where it hovered and
danced. Galadriel staggered slightly, causing his heart to rise into
his throat, and he reached out an automatic arm to her, which she
grasped to steady herself as she sat, her other hand resting lightly
on her belly.

For the instant the contact between the three of them lasted , Elrond
had the strangest sense of a far shadow of destiny, shot through with
an uneasy mixture of warmth and  horror, and then it was gone, leaving
him facing Galadriel, who was looking up at him with eyes briefly
narrowed in darkened interest before gesturing him to sit beside her.
There was a small table centred between the chairs, and he chose to
perch upon this instead.

The room was oppressively quiet save for the all-pervasive voice of
the sea, a sound which, for all his life, Elrond would associate with
Lindon. Galadriel was sitting with her back to the light, her face in
shadow. The impression she gave was of a cloud of silver gilt hair and
a pair of brilliant eyes. Elrond become very aware of the fact that
they were completely alone. This was emphasised when she laughed
softly, the sound carrying a note of moondark and alien shores, making
him shiver.

"Last night you accidentally stepped into the space I occupy. Done
properly, this skill will allow you to speak mind to mind with another
of like ability or to read hearts and determine worth. Untrained, it
remains an invasive gift capable of far more harm than good."

"You laughed at me and then it was as though a door closed," Elrond
said thoughtfully, curious in spite of himself. "Before that there
were pictures, emotions.but disconnected, meaningless to me."

"That is because you lack training," Galadriel told him gravely, her
low voice picking up some slight echo from the empty room, causing the
skin on the nape of his neck to prickle. "This is why these gifts are
given to our kind and not the Secondborn. We have the time required to
master them, which is something they lack."

Restless as her reputation implied, she rose and paced over to the
study area, forcing him to follow. She spoke as she walked, her voice
rising and fading with the strange acoustics of the half-finished
room. "As you age, so you will grow in power and skill, but while you
are young you must learn the many possibilities of this craft and
discover where your strengths lie." She stood and looked out of the
window for a moment, then glanced back at him over her shoulder. "This
is the way of these things for such as you and I. This is who we are."

"I want to be a healer, not - not whatever this is," Elrond said,
taking firm hold of his abraded nerves and squinting to avoid looking
into the sinking sun. He had been almost tempted by what she might be
able to teach him, regardless of how uneasy she made him. However, the
word `must'  had stung, and he said the first thing that came to his
mind and was startled to realise that he spoke the truth. The training
he sought was not in Galadriel's gift, but in Ereinion's. He forced
himself to turn and look at her and was disconcerted when she simply
nodded and smiled her small, pale smile.

"Yes, of course you do," she agreed. "You have the potential to become
a healer of great ability and it will come to you in its time, as will
the other. Both take application and patience, but for both you have a
gift. They are facets of the destiny that will one day be yours."

As she spoke she stroked her hand lightly over the place where her
babe rested, as though in communion. Elrond had a good sense of things
happening here that were beyond his knowledge, a feeling that he
instinctively responded to by mentally stepping back.

"My lady, at the moment I have no urge to explore any of my - other
gifts,"  he began, seeing his opportunity to close the subject but,
inevitably, his curiosity got the better of him, as always. "Though -
I am curious, perhaps you could show me how you shut me out of your
mind last night?"

Galadriel gave him an amused look. "That? I would teach you that, of
course, though not in isolation from other skills. However, those
actions were not mine, but Glorfindel's. Many of us born in the West
have the aptitude for such things, though I had always thought him
singularly uninterested in farspeech."

Turning, she made her way across to the doors leading out onto the
fledgling garden, stopping in a beam of reddening light that added
flame to her hair, making her momentarily look unfamiliar and strange.

"I think it will be long before either of us understands why the Valar
chose to continue Lúthien's line amongst both First and Secondborn,
but nothing, not your choice, not your gifts, certainly not your
brother's fate, are casual matters. Allowing me to train you will
simply confirm rather than delay your destiny, young one. The Valar
leave nothing to chance."

~*~*~*~

The dinner was long and, in Erestor's opinion, successful. The food
was both plentiful and well-prepared, the wine chosen from amongst the
best vintages available. Gil-galad was known to believe that a host
who stinted his guests could be regarded as suspect on many levels,
and was earning a reputation for setting an excellent table. The music
from the gallery made a pleasant backdrop to the rather disjointed but
enjoyable conversation to be had at such times.

Gil-galad sat at the main table, flanked by Elros and by Silbaron, who
had been elected by the council to be Elros' chief advisor. He was a
Man of middle years from one of the settlements near the mouth of the
Anduin, bearded as was their way, dark haired and grave eyed but, if
the many laughing exchanges between himself and the High King were
anything to judge by, certainly good humoured.

Erestor had been seated approximately where Elrond had indicated,
between one of the archivists and the wife of one of the healers. She
turned out to be a good dinner companion, having a great deal of
information about many of the guests. Erestor, from habit, collected
information as others collect good plate or tapestries, and was happy
to sit and listen, offering occasional murmurs of encouragement for
her to continue.

Elrond and Glorfindel sat not far from the high table, hosts to the
Men who would form the nucleus of the Númenórean court. They sat
together, sharing the canopy of estate, although the original idea had
been for them to be placed closer to either end of the group. Elrond
had arranged for them to be seated together before he and Erestor left
the Hall that morning, implying it was somehow his fault that
Glorfindel was excluded from the relative isolation of the King's
table. Having observed the quietly spoken hero's discomfort when faced
with a situation that forced him to make casual conversation, Erestor
felt a rush of sympathy for him.

As it turned out, Glorfindel needed to make very little effort, as
Elrond went out of his way to be charming and hospitable, apparently
determined to make a good impression on his brother's behalf. Erestor
sat, Elrond's rubies laced through his hair, and tried not to stare
too hard at the captivating being who smiled and laughed and exchanged
words and toasts up and down the table.

After dinner, the guests moved outside to the courtyard which, as was
the custom in the evenings, had been transformed with coloured
lanterns and clusters of cushions for casual seating. Torches in
sconces flared at intervals around the square, adding to the festive
atmosphere. While they mingled and talked, the tables and benches were
removed and the Hall prepared for dancing. Erestor obtained a cup of
wine and found a good vantage point to watch the crowd.

The Princeling, he immediately noticed, was on the opposite side of
the square and in deep conversation with his brother. Erestor was
struck by the contrast between them - the same hair and eyes, of
similar build and yet so very different. Elros had a wider face, his
hair was smooth and very neat and he seemed a little broader across
the shoulders. He was certainly more restrained and deliberate in his
movements compared to his brother's quicksilver grace. Erestor
wondered what they were discussing so intensely.

*****

"..and then she went outside and sat on one of the benches, and I no
longer existed. It was like being lectured by Maedhros."

"You need to stay away from her. She makes my nerves itch."

The twins stood together off to one side, sharing a rare few minutes
of public privacy. Elros was surreptitiously watching a small group of
young Elves on the far side of the square. He had no place in such
circles; not only had his features changed over time to reflect his
ties to the Secondborn, but as a King in training, the company of his
peers was something he had been obliged to forfeit.

Elrond knew everyone in these little cliques, although on the whole he
remained uninvolved, set apart by his status as a descendant of
legends and Gil-galad's de facto heir. Now he followed his brother's
gaze and wondered at his interest. He usually found Gelladar, Bainon
and their friends self-absorbed, boring, and interested in little more
than riding, weaponry and sex. Well, he lacked personal experience but
he was fairly sure there was nothing wrong with sex.

"Bainon's father wants him to bind with Dalbros' eldest daughter," he
offered. "It's a good match. Of course he thinks he can do better."

The proximity of the shadow of their separation all but covered the
twins, but in a final act of defiance they tried their best to hold
onto the last few threads of normal life. This often took the form of
gossip, sharing rumours and guesses in a way that would soon be beyond
their reach forever. Of one accord they considered Bainon and both
snorted at the presumption. Bainon's father held a position within
Gil-galad's growing administration that was no more than middling,
defining the limits to which he could aspire in his efforts to see his
son and daughter decently matched.

Some Elves bonded for love, Elrond contemplated, but at court the
majority simply pursued the most advantageous match available. Like
Bainon's sister for example, with her red-blonde hair and unusually
dark eyes, and her misguided hopes of attracting the interest of a
King. Elrond found the whole concept depressing. He was about to
mention this to Elros but the uncrowned king of Númenor had just been
approached by one of his new councillors and, all gracious smiles,
reminiscent of Ereinion on a bad day, he excused himself, leaving
Elrond to watch his departing back, the chill fingers of loss brushing
his heart.

*****

Gil-galad stood a little apart from the crowd that always gathered
about him during social events, a regal figure clad in deep scarlet,
his hair bound with twists of ruby-studded mithril. Catching Elrond's
eye, he beckoned him with a brief motion of his head. He had seen the
moment of vulnerability, quickly masked, and once again wondered which
of the brothers would crack first. They had accepted their separate
futures with seeming equanimity but, being far more intuitive than
most gave him credit for, he sensed the pain and resentment that
hovered just below the surface. He watched Elros walk away and wished,
for the umpteenth time, that he knew what had really happened that day
on the beach with Eönwë.

Elrond's first action was to try, using as much discretion as was
possible given the difference in their heights, to determine the
contents of Gil-galad's wine cup, which the King helpfully lowered to
waist level.  "Twice watered," he explained briefly.

Elrond grinned. "I wonder you can face it. In your place I'd be
seeking my bed early tonight."

Gil-galad smiled wryly and shrugged. "An idle wish. When this ends I
have a meeting that should last at least two hours. I'll be lucky to
see my bed before dawn."

"Or Glorfindel," Elrond added blandly, sipping wine. Something
flickered in his cousin's eyes and was gone. There was a pause and
then Gil-galad glanced swiftly around before drawing a little closer
to Elrond and lowering his voice.

"Have you noticed anything.unusual about him today?"

Elrond blinked. "Unusual? No, I don't think so. What do you mean?"

"Just unusual, that's all. Sort of.decisive and .brisk."

"Brisk?" Elrond considered the word. "Not really, no. Though last
night we shared a bit of a strange experience."

"Last night?"

Elrond paused. This was as much Glorfindel's story as his. Still,
common sense told him he needed to confide this to Ereinion. He was
out of his depth with Galadriel.

"I.I saw her outside watching the sea. Glori and I were talking and
then I seemed to go - to go somewhere else. Inside her mind, or
something like that. And when I came back to myself I could hear her
laughing - in my head. And then Glori did something - she told me
today that it was him - and he shut her out. He didn't want to talk
about it later. She wants to train me. At least, that's what she
seemed to be saying today," he finished.

He would have been horrified to know how young he looked and sounded.

"Who?" Gil-galad was staring at him blankly, trying to keep up and
failing.

"Who..? Oh, your aunt Galadriel. Sorry."

Gil-galad spluttered on a mouthful of wine. "You tried to play mind
games with Galadriel?"

"No, no, it wasn't deliberate. I have no idea what I did. It's never
happened before."

Gil-galad compressed his lips, mentally shut out the crowd around them
and extended his full attention to Elrond, whose disquiet was patent.
He spoke slowly, picking his words with care. "These skills tend to
belong to those born over the Sea, or to the Eldest, who first saw
life beside Cuiviénen, but in your case I think this might be your
heritage from Melian. If you want advice in dealing with it, I'll help
you find someone suitable to talk to. If not, let it be. There are no
rules."

There were rules, of course, but not for his cousin, he decided. The
twins had been raised by those who were not their kin, and the advice
and training that should have come from Dior's daughter had been lost
to them. Gil-galad considered who he could trust to talk to Elrond
about such matters. It was a short list. Elrond's voice broke into his
thoughts.

"Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, he looks different somehow."

He followed Elrond's gaze to Glorfindel, who had paused to speak to
Dalbros. Normally unobtrusive in his style of dress, tonight he
outshone the Half-elf, who had settled for silver-grey trimmed with
black and the moonstones that had been Lúthien's gift to Dior.
Glorfindel wore iridescent shades of green and rather a lot of gold
jewellery. His golden hair was braided and knotted and had strands of
little green stones woven through it. Elrond and Gil-galad exchanged
glances.

"Seems he remembered you gave him permission to raid the Treasury if
he needed jewellery," Elrond said, amused and rather impressed.

"He's been strange since he woke me this morning," Gil-galad
volunteered. "He more or less ordered me to start confiding in him.
Something about us being more open with each other."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"No, no, I suppose not. Just - very unlike him."

Glorfindel became aware of their attention and disengaged smilingly
from Dalbros after a few words to Erestor. His first action on joining
them was to eye Gil-galad's wine cup suspiciously.

"Twice watered," Elrond told him in a voice that suggested it was all
his work.

"What's this about Galadriel?" Gil-galad asked bluntly.

Glorfindel raised a golden brow in Elrond's direction, surprised that
he had mentioned the night's occurrence. "Oh, she was just being
herself, I'm afraid," he said, shrugging. "She's harmless really - ."

Gil-galad snorted. "She wants to train his mind skills. I think Elrond
needs to find someone a bit more reliable - she'll be off wandering
east or south or some such once the babe's born, looking for something
new to meddle with." Unless the child's a boy, he added to himself.

"I don't want to learn about all that. I want to be a healer," Elrond
said in a low voice. One of his assistants chose that moment to come
and whisper to Gil-galad that the Hall was in readiness for the next
stage of the festivities. He paused, then held up a hand, asking for a
few more minutes, and turned back to his cousin.

"Yes, but you must learn to manage this, too," he said, gently but
firmly. "You can't go around accidentally invading people's minds. No
reason you can't do both, of course. If you're serious this time about
healing, come and talk to me tomorrow and I'll see what I can arrange.
As for the other.I'll speak to Galadriel. I won't allow her to make
demands on you, but you and I will need to agree on someone else who
can guide you instead."

"Can't you teach me, Glori? She seemed impressed by whatever it was
you did."

Glorfindel sipped his wine and shook his head. " I can't teach you,"
he said seriously. "It's a bit like singing. Most Elves sing for
pleasure, some of us are very good, but only a few actually train as
singers. Like everyone I grew up with I had the potential, but I never
showed much talent for abilities like farspeech. Since.since my return
I seem able to do things that were closed to me before. Even so, I
remain untrained. Which means I can't train you." He looked off into
the darkness for a moment and then his face cleared. "But I know who
can. Leave it for tonight, let me talk with Gil and I'll tell you my
idea later."

Elrond caught Gil-galad's eye as he was about to lead the way back
inside for dancing and song. "You're right," he muttered. "Very
strange. But in a good way."

Chapter 16

The half light of early morning had entered the room and was slowly
dissipating the night's shadows and the birds had long since begun
their dawn chorus, when Glorfindel woke to the sensation of moist lips
tracing a path across his naked shoulder. He was lying on his side,
his back to Gil-galad's warmth, and the King was wide awake. He
deduced this not only from the lingering kisses being applied to his
bare skin but also from the strong hand stroking his side, pausing at
his waist on each pass to gently finger the soft skin there.

Glorfindel yawned and rolled over onto his back and reached up a hand
to draw Gil down for a lazy good morning kiss. He slid his other arm
round him and lay savouring the feeling of thick, heavy hair slipping
through his fingers and hard muscle rippling under his palm. Dark,
wavy hair with a most un-Elven tendency towards disorder fell around
him like a curtain as Gil bent to find his lips. As the kiss ended,
Glorfindel smiled up in sleepy amusement and gently brushed the dark
tangle back, before resting his hand against Gil's cheek in an
unconscious caress.

"Such a beautiful mess. I'll brush it out for you later. You're awake
early.is there  something you want?"

Gil-galad chuckled softly, sliding strong arms round Glorfindel and
pulling him onto his side and into a hug that moulded their bodies
together. "There was something I had in mind, yes," he agreed,
stroking golden hair out of the way so that he could suck teasingly at
an earlobe before exploring the ear with the tip of his tongue. The
effect, which should have been erotic, was rather spoilt by his
efforts a few moments later to get rid of a mouthful of hair.

Laughing, Glorfindel shifted lazily against him, desire taking
precedence over any thought of going back to sleep. "Give me a little
time to wake up first," he yawned, pressing closer and twining a leg
around the King so that he could reach to rub the sensitive spot at
the back of Gil's knee with his foot. This never failed to get a
response from his lover, and this morning was no different. An indrawn
breath was followed by a low moan as Gil buried his face in
Glorfindel's neck and held him closer. They lay, touching and stroking
one another, moving against each other with growing pressure and urgency.

Eventually Gil drew back and said huskily, "Turn over."

Glorfindel lay shivering under the touch of strong hands that ghosted
smoothly over his shoulders and rib cage, down to his waist and below.
Gil, kneeling over him, brought his thumbs together to press firmly in
the small of his back, causing waves of pleasure to radiate from the
well-chosen spot. Then, moving those thumbs in small, firm, circles
that raised tingling pulses of heat, he worked his way over
Glorfindel's buttocks and down to his cleft. Light fingertips explored
the sensitive skin before his hands retraced their path, returning to
the blonde Elf's shoulders.

He leaned forward till he was lying almost flat, their bodies pressed
together from shoulder to toe, his heavy erection nestled between
Glorfindel's cheeks. His right hand travelled slowly down his lover's
arm till their hands met and fingers entwined and then he drew
Glorfindel over onto his side, into the curve of his left arm, so that
their bodies spooned together in much the same position as when they
had woken.

Freeing his hand, he trailed it down Glorfindel's thigh with a touch
so light it raised gooseflesh in its wake, tugging gently to indicate
he should draw up his knee. Then he rested the hand on one firm cheek,
spreading him open before pushing gently forward and entering him.
Glorfindel gasped and pushed back instinctively against Gil, who slid
smoothly up into him, filling him and making him hiss sharply, more
from surprise than discomfort. Gil, on a panting groan, leaned over
him to place a kiss near his ear before asking breathlessly, "You all
right?"

Glorfindel gave a shaky laugh, edgy with excitement. "What happened to
slow, gentle and careful? It's all right, go on, deeper."

"You sure? Sorry - I'm rushing this. You wanted time to wake up."

"I'm awake. Stop talking and do it. I love to feel you inside me."

"All right, sweetheart, all right." The words were punctuated with
lingering kisses along the side of his face and neck. "Don't be in
such a hurry. Should I get some oil.?"

Glorfindel pushed back against him insistently and said, "When you're
quite finished talking, do you think you could please shut up and fuck
me?"

"Did you just tell me to shut up and fuck you?" Gil asked on a warm
gust of laughter, grinning as he kissed Glorfindel's cheek through
soft fair hair. The golden head dropped back against his shoulder and
he saw a flash of blue eyes.

"That would be right, yes," Glorfindel said on an indrawn breath as
Gil punctuated the sentence by pushing deeper into him. "Good and
hard. Please."

"What, like this?" Gil asked with laughter in his voice,
demonstrating. "Was this what you wanted?" A deeper thrust struck
Glorfindel's sweet spot and caused him to claw at the sheet, curse and
jerk back urgently.

"I can get on with this, yes," Gil agreed breathily, moving his hand
to clasp Glorfindel's hip firmly. "Good and hard, I think you said? I
can do that, yes." Starting slowly he proceeded to oblige, driving
into Glorfindel with ever-increasing force and speed.

At a point where he was sobbing for breath and blind to almost
everything save the heat coursing through him and Gil pounding into
him, Glorfindel moved onto his stomach, dragging Gil over with him in
a scramble of limbs and whispered endearments and obscenities, then
drew his knees under him, taking his weight on his forearms, lifting
and pushing back into each stroke on a series of low, needful growls.

Gil, reaching blindly beneath them, found Glorfindel's length and
wrapped his hand around it tightly. He needed do no more than hold
him, as the motion of their bodies was more than enough to supply the
friction that brought Glorfindel to climax within minutes, carried
finally over the edge by the sensation of Gil's mouth fastening onto
his neck, hard, moments before his seed covered Gil's hand and the bed.

Kneeling almost upright now, Gil slowed his movements, savouring the
contracting muscles clenching around his cock as he pushed slowly deep
into the tightness, drawing back, driving in, both hands grasping
Glorfindel's hips. At last he thrust in as deeply as he was able and
held still, not breathing, his eyes closed, his fingers gripping
painfully, as the first wave of ecstasy swept through him. Moving
again, he gave a dozen more hard, panting thrusts before he finally
collapsed over Glorfindel, spent.

They lay still, breathing heavily, then slowly Gil drew back and out
and Glorfindel turned almost as part of the same motion and came into
his embrace. He wrapped his arms round Gil and held onto him, kissing
his sweat-filmed neck and cheek and murmuring indistinct words of
pleasure and thanks.  And so they lay, intertwined and pressed
together almost as though seeking comfort. Finally Gil-galad drew back
a little to look at the flushed face with the kiss-swollen lips and
half-closed blue eyes.

"You do this better than anyone else I've ever been with. Or heard
talk of." He was quiet for a minute and they stared at one another.
"That was the wrong thing to say, wasn't it?"

Glorfindel gave up his attempt to look insulted at this reference to
past lovers, and flashed Gil an affectionate smile. "Completely
wrong," he agreed. "But I liked it anyway."

~*~*~*~

"Círdan," Elros said blankly. "Círdan? But you're not even upset?"

Elrond shrugged. Clad only in a night robe, he was sitting
cross-legged on his brother's bed, the lightly woven, colourful
blanket he had found there wrapped around his shoulders. It was early
morning, but this had become the only part of the day when he could be
certain that Elros would have time to listen. Laslech lay in the
doorway, watching. Elros' bedroom was forbidden territory.

"I can manage Círdan. You just have to look him in the eye and speak
your mind. He isn't used to that, it stops him in his tracks.
Usually." He dismissed his twin's disbelieving stare with a gesture.
"Glori's explanation made sense. Círdan won't push me to do things
just to see if I can. He's not - intense like Galadriel. And Ereinion
said he could ask him to stop telling me how to behave, too."

Drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms round them, he leaned
forward, his voice becoming even more animated. "And in a few years I
might go and spend some time studying with Gildor. That should be
interesting. Erestor's met him a few times, did I tell you? Ereinion
wasn't clear about what he'd teach me - he said something about self
discipline. He would say that, of course."

"Bit of self discipline couldn't hurt," his brother said a little
caustically, getting out of bed and going to open the drapes. He took
a look at the slate grey sky, pulled a face and went back to spend a
last few minutes within the warmth of the bedcovers.

Apparently Elrond was experiencing one of his periodic enthusiasms,
which Elros usually found exhausting. He was unsure whether to be
relieved or saddened that these occurred with less frequency as they
grew older, a result of regular disillusion and regret. Dragging back
a share of the blankets, he wrapped them round himself as best he
could and attempted to restore some balance.

"You know, if anyone else had suggested this you would be throwing a
tantrum. Glorfindel opens his mouth and you act as though he speaks
eternal truth."

"Oh Ros, that's not fair. I listened because he was right, that's all.
I don't have to like Círdan, he doesn't have to like me, we just have
to be polite. He has to teach and I have to learn."

Elros gave him a level, expressionless look and tried a different
approach. "Have you discussed it with Erestor?" he asked.

"Why would I do that?" Frowning, grey eyes narrowing.

"Oh, I don't know, just to see what he thinks. You say he's lived
quite a varied life, he should have an opinion of sorts - and it might
be less biased."

"Biased?"

"Gil usually agrees with Glorfindel, it's becoming a habit. I'm sorry,
Ro, but Glorfindel's indulging in a bit of Aman logic. They look at
things differently to us, and you know it. What worries me most is
that I won't be here to help soon, and you seen to think he can do no
wrong."

It was not meant to sound bitter, but it did. Elrond had looked to his
calmer, more reasoned brother for advice and guidance for most of
their lives and while Elros had felt no discomfort when his twin had
finally begun accepting Gil-galad, who was a relative as well as High
King, as an authority, the newly-arrived Glorfindel was another matter.

Elrond studied his brother thoughtfully. The slight edge had been
there before at mention of Glorfindel. Out of the corner of his eye,
he saw Laslech half rise and edge forward a little, bringing herself
wholly into the room but far enough from the bed not to invite
attention. Elros felt dogs had no place in the bedroom and seemed to
believe she slept in the little hallway that led through to the main
body of the Palace as he had intended when he had first been given
her. This arrangement had lasted no more than a few hours because,
remembering too many confusing, frightening nights surrounded by
strangers, Elrond had fetched her to his room where she had slept ever
since, on a rug in the corner.

He leaned forward bonelessly to relax against his brother's legs and
reached over to pull the covers clear of Elros' face so that they
could look at one another clearly.

"What possible reason could you have to not like Glori?"

Elros sat up against the headboard, pushing braids impatiently behind
his ears. "I don't dislike him, Ro. I've not spent much time with him,
but he's pleasant enough when you can get him to talk. The problem is,
you seem to think him incapable of making mistakes and I doubt he
knows you nearly well enough to be making life altering choices for you."

Elrond gave him a puzzled look. "Glori makes mistakes, lots of them.
He's sleeping with Ereinion - there's nothing smart about that. But I
trust him. He's honest, and when he gives advice it's good."

"I just don't want you to agree blindly to every suggestion he makes,
that's all. We might  be able to write occasionally, but I will be too
far away to give advice. You have to start sorting things out
yourself, not just find someone else to ask for help."

Elrond sat up, finally annoyed. Laslech, sensing his mood, sidled a
little closer. Her tail started to wag by reflex but she stilled it,
very aware that she had crossed the invisible line into the forbidden.
"Then do you have a better suggestion? If I have this .this power,
then I need to be able to contain it. Who would you suggest in place
of Círdan?"

Elros frowned, his forehead crinkling. His skin was no longer as
smooth as it had once been but, to Elrond's mind, this simply gave him
character.  "I don't know. Why do you have to be `trained'? I never
heard of that before - you just grow into it naturally, surely?"

"Of course not, not things like farspeech and the like," Elrond shot
back at him. "You just don't hear much about it because Elves born
since the Return can't usually do such things. Of course, we have to
be different. Like Maedhros used to say when I upset him - we're
mongrels, totally unlike anyone else."

He relaxed back onto the bed, smiling to himself at some memory. "And
I don't want to sort it out myself. If you don't have a better idea,
I'll just have to put up with Círdan's disapproval. I have no wish to
find myself inside Galadriel's head again."

"Out of here, now. Right now!" Elros suddenly yelled, sitting up and
swinging his arm to point at the door. Elrond started, then realised
this was directed at Laslech, who had crept right up to the bed while
they were talking. Knowing she had broken one of the primary rules in
her world, she got up immediately and trotted out of the room,
stopping at a point well beyond the doorway, but where she could still
keep Elrond in view.

He compressed his lips slightly and glanced at Elros out of the corner
of his eye, but his brother was already settling back down and there
was little point in saying anything. He had no wish to mar their last
few days or weeks with arguments. He guiltily pushed back his concern
about how the dog would fare in her new home. She was a dog; he should
be worrying about his brother.

"Well, she knows not to come into the bedrooms," Elros pointed out in
what he felt was a reasonable tone but which sounded suspiciously like
a justification. Elrond nodded wordlessly. He thought it best not to
mention that not only did she sleep in his room, but that she was also
in fact allowed to get on his bed in the morning to say hello.

~*~*~*~

Around mid morning Gil-galad was informed that his aunt had arrived in
the Palace as requested and was waiting to see him. The fire in his
sitting room had been lit early to fend off the encroaching winter
gloom, and upon entering he was unsurprised to find Galadriel standing
before it, still wrapped against the outdoor chill in a voluminous,
fur trimmed cloak. Despite their kind's natural resistance to extremes
in temperature, every Elf he had ever met who had crossed the
Helcaraxë disliked being cold. Glorfindel, whose skin seemed always
warm to the touch, was no exception.

"You wished to see me, Ereinion?"

Galadriel only addressed him formally in public or in the presence of
outsiders. Normally this was something he liked, as it gave him a
comfortable sense of family, but today it grated.

"I thought we should discuss Elrond," he told her without preamble.
Well, he saw no need for the small talk, which she professed to
despise. He had seen her the previous night; her health was always
excellent, if something had befallen her mate he would have been told,
and she would not have come if all had not been well with the babe -
his heir if male, though instinct told him this was a girl-child.

She inclined her head. "Elrond and I have talked, yes. He tells me he
wants to be a healer." She said it in an amused voice, as though
quoting the wishes of a child who would know better with age.
Gil-galad frowned at her.

`Yes, he's been interested in that for some time. I'm arranging for
him to have some training, see if he takes to it."

She raised a fine, exquisitely shaped eyebrow, then shrugged
gracefully. "As you wish. He has skill there, I sense. It can do no harm."

"As for the other things you want him to learn.."

"Ah."

He had her attention; this was what she had come to discuss. Well, he
though, she might not like what she was about to hear. Gil-galad
understood his aunt better than most. Royal, ambitious; if she could
not rule, she would mould. And as he was not open to her guidance -
Círdan had been enough - he suspected she had been looking around for
other work to turn her hand to. She reminded him of his father, never
still, always busy with some project. The final one had led to the
destruction of Nargothrond.

"Elrond's young, his heritage is - unusual, and I feel this needs to
be managed carefully," he said. She was staring into the fire,
standing very still. He went and sat on the arm of a nearby chair,
trying discreetly to remind her of the difference in their rank even
though he felt uncomfortable seated while she remained standing.

"I discussed it with Glorfindel, and we're agreed that Círdan would be
the best choice. His skills differ to those developed in the West, and
this should make him more flexible, more aware that there are
different paths that can be followed. As Elrond's gifts are likely to
be his legacy from Melian, this will be invaluable."

He paused, then decided he might as well tell her the rest, hoping
that the inclusion of another family member would mollify the growing
outrage he saw on her face. "Later I  think he should spend some time
with Gildor - the mind and body disciplines he teaches might have
future value and he has no political objectives. There's no rush. When
Elrond feels ready it will be time enough. And right now he is far
from ready."

"Gildor?" she asked flatly. "Gildor Inglorion? That gypsy?"

"The same," he agreed equably, inwardly flinching from the gathering
storm he sensed was about to break about him.

"But that is absurd!" she exclaimed, swinging round to glare at him,
her eyes blazing. "And as for Círdan - I can hardly believe Glorfindel
would be so irresponsible. I offer no disrespect to the abilities of
one who woke here in the time before the Summons, but Elrond's
potential is too varied, too vast to be left to someone who has not
studied these matters. As you suggest, his power is not wholly Elven.
No, Ereinion, absolutely not. I studied with Melian; these are things
no one is better qualified to teach him than me."

Gil-galad shook his head firmly. "I don't question the need for
training, but in the absence of one of the Maia, I believe Círdan is
the best choice to guide him. All else aside, he can be relied on not
to encourage Elrond to fly too high, too soon - something I am not
convinced you would be able to resist, to be honest."

He was not about to admit that he saw her point, that when Glorfindel
had suggested all this he had been more than a little dubious. He had
been as much startled as surprised when Elrond had agreed, and had
uneasily wondered what the response would have been had anyone else
put forward the idea. He rose and went over to her, making his tone
conciliatory.

"I'm sure it wasn't intentional, aunt, but he had no grounding in
these matters from Maglor, and your approach unsettled him badly. In
any event, it's out of your hands now. Elrond is my responsibility,
and I'll decide as I think best for him."

Galadriel stood silent, her head tilted to one side as though
listening to something. Gil-galad suddenly become aware of a coolness
in the room, a sense of power moving through the stillness, and
waited. He lacked many of the more common Elven gifts, but in their
place had something of inestimable value - he could perceive power and
energy being manipulated and bent to the will of others, yet it could
hold no sway over him. He had walked through dark shadows that would
have cowed or ensnared another Elf and had remained unscathed. This,
however, was less perilous; Galadriel had the gift of farsight, and he
waited with interest to discover what she saw.

"He remains your responsibility for a time only, son of my brother,"
she said quietly, turning to him, her strange, sea-hued eyes looking
into a time and place closed to him. "The destiny of the Peredhel will
remain your concern for your lifespan, but when the time comes for
Eärendil's son to fulfill his destiny, he will stand alone. He will
need wisdom and strength far beyond your imaginings when that time
arrives."

Gil-galad felt a rush of heat spread out from the pit of his stomach,
though his skin felt like ice. Galadriel was speaking from some place
between worlds, and he knew he could hardly blame her for simply
telling him what she saw. Even if that appeared to relate to his
death, the only logical explanation for his absence in Elrond's
future. Keeping his voice very even, therefore, he said softly, "Even
so, aunt, at this time responsibility for Elrond's training remains my
concern, not yours. This is my final word, and in my Palace, in my
kingdom, that is sufficient."

Galadriel came back abruptly from the place her thoughts had walked,
concern and distress beginning to form on her face. She reached out an
instinctive hand to him, no longer the prophetess, once more his aunt.

"Ereinion, I'm sorry, the words were ill-chosen. I often see things
without understanding their context. This was simply one of those times."

He took her hand and brought it lightly to his lips, shaking his head
and forcing an easy smile. "Things happen as they will. Don't worry, I
won't live my life in fear of words or pictures seen in the depths of
my hearth fire, any more than I can allow them to decide Elrond's future."

Galadriel wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her,
shivering slightly. She was tall, almost Glorfindel's height, he
realised. He returned the hug reflexively, and was almost amused to
find he seemed to be the one offering comfort. He stepped back after a
minute and put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her
worried face.

"You may have seen and spoken clearly, but I choose to believe this is
something that will prove to have a less dark explanation. Put it from
your mind, for the babe's sake if for no other reason. This is not a
time for you to worry unnecessarily."

She nodded slowly, her face still troubled.  "Whatever I saw, it was
in a time and place far from here," she confirmed. "And your absence
may have been due to any one of a number of reasons. Ereinion, no
matter how strong our disagreements, we remain family. Be certain I
would never ill wish you."

He shook his head. "No aunt, I know that," he reassured her, giving
her shoulders an affectionate squeeze before releasing her. "And I'm
sorry about Elrond, but I really think this will be the best way
forward for him."

Bidding her enjoy the warmth of his rooms, and adding an invitation
for her to share the midday meal with him, he took his leave of her.
Just before he closed the door, he saw her draw the cloak close about
her and rest a hand on her belly as though seeking comfort from the
child within.

*****

He wandered through the Palace after leaving Galadriel, trying to
order his thoughts, and was on the final flight of steps leading up to
the roof before he again took note of his surroundings. He seldom
visited the area above the Healers' rooms where, on warm days,
patients were encouraged to spend time sitting in the sun in a
sheltered corner which had been outfitted with benches for this
purpose. It was one of Glorfindel's favourite spots of late, and right
now it seemed as good a choice as any.

He stepped out onto the roof and almost immediately saw sunlight
glinting on golden hair. For a disoriented moment he thought it was
Galadriel, but then realised he had found the other golden blonde in
the Palace, Glorfindel.

He was leaning against a buttress and staring out over the farmlands,
the wind tugging at his clothes. Gil-galad walked up behind him and
slid his arms round his waist, resting his cheek against the warrior's
hair. Glorfindel covered a hand with his own and leaned back lightly
against him. Gil-galad dropped his head slightly so that his chin
rested on a powerful shoulder.

"I never had someone to hold onto before," he said with a half-bemused
smile.

"Something's wrong?" Glorfindel asked, his light, clear voice warm and
concerned.

"Uh-uh."

There seemed no point in mentioning it. If death came, it came. He had
been a soldier for most of his life, he had, unlike the majority of
his kind, long since come to terms with the possibility. No need to
concern those close to him. Perhaps he would share Galadriel's words
one day, but not today, not until he could treat them as no more than
a reminder not to waste the time he was given.  Instead he stood
holding Glorfindel in silence, idly watching people moving far below
while the wind whistled around them and the clouds scudded across the
sun and the never-ending voice of the ocean rose and fell in the
background.

Finally he drew Glorfindel round to face him, holding him by the hips
while the warrior's  hands moved automatically to rest on his
shoulders.  "What could be wrong? I'm with you -  the best place in
all the world," he said, speaking more seriously than he had intended.

Glorfindel reached up to stroke Gil's face lightly before taking it
gently between his hands and looking searchingly into his eyes. "You
won't tell me what troubles you?" he asked, his tone disappointed.

Gil-galad hesitated momentarily then shook his head. "No, it's
nothing. I spoke with Galadriel as I said I would, and she has a way
of making you doubt yourself, question your future."

"Let go of the doubt," Glorfindel told him, his voice close and
intimate. "I will not let you doubt yourself. Trust me," he added,
laughter in his eyes as he leaned forward and kissed Gil softly on the
lips, "I am even quicker than doubt."

Gil-galad laughed with him, and slid his arms around his lover,
drawing him close. Bending, he claimed the sweetly curved mouth in a
slow, deep kiss, putting Galadriel's hints of a foreshortened future
into a quiet corner of his mind where they would stay unless or until
a day came when they would have relevance.

Chapter 17

The palace at Lindon, the building of which had begun at the end of
the War of Wrath when it finally became possible for a King to live in
security on the mainland once more, sat upon a promontory overlooking
the Gulf of Lhûn, its pale rose granite walls glowing softly under
both sun and moonlight. The land upon which it was built stood
elevated above the shoreline, the grounds ending abruptly in a sharp
drop down to the rocks below. It was not a single structure but an
interconnected group of buildings making up a sprawling, many-faceted
complex.

The stables, as well as the barracks housing the core companies of
Gil-galad's substantial army, were on the east side of the complex,
where the land sloped down to sea level, giving access to a narrow
beach, while on the opposite side there was a small, busy harbour that
provided fish and trading goods for the fast-growing town that had
sprung up in this area of implied safety.

Mithlond, Círdan's haven, the closely guarded anchorage where the
ships that carried the Eldar into the West were built and maintained,
lay some distance to the east at the mouth of the Lhûn, whilst across
the bay was Harlond, the main trading port of Harlindon. The great,
deepwater harbour at Forlond lay within sight of the open sea, more
than a day's ride from the palace on the recently constructed road
that followed the coast down from Mithlond. Here, under the protection
of Elven warriors, ships were being built that would carry the Second
born Elven allies of Arda to their newly created haven on the island
of Númenor

~*~*~*~

"How would you like to take a ride up the coast to Forlond?

"Forlond? The port?" Glorfindel didn't turn his head as he spoke, his
eyes remaining on the quartet of attractive, brightly-clad dancers who
were whirling in intricate patterns, their movements blending
seamlessly with the accompanying music of drum and flute.

The evening meal was long past and the central courtyard of the palace
had undergone its regular transformation into a gathering place for
conversation, music and song. Tonight, dancers from the south were
entertaining the palace residents, accompanied by their own small
troupe of musicians. They were dressed in flowing layers of
multi-coloured clothing made from a filmy material and were draped in
jewellery which caught the light enticingly with every move.

Glorfindel was sitting on a low wall on the Hall side of the
courtyard, a spot which was usually the King's preferred vantage point
when he had time to join the evening's festivities. Gil-galad nodded
as he joined him, giving the blonde's shoulder a quick shake to wrest
his attention away from the dancers.

"It's a little over a day's slow ride down the coast. Nice scenery, an
overnight stop under the stars as becomes elves, pleasant company."

Glorfindel slanted him a glance under dark gold lashes. "And?" he
asked. Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, which was met with a disbelieving
smile. "No, I know you. You don't go for pleasure trips down the
coast. Why would we be going to Forlond?"

Gil-galad sighed softly, his face growing serious. "Because I have
business there and I would enjoy your company on the road."

Glorfindel turned and studied him for a moment and then nodded. "The
ships for Númenor are being built there. It's time, isn't it?"

The dark head nodded slowly. "Yes, it's time. I told Elros earlier. I
wanted to see the two of them together, but Elrond was nowhere about
and Elros seemed disinclined to wait till I found him."

His companion gestured wordlessly over to where a small knot of young
Elves sat. They were in shadow, but once he turned his attention to
them, Gil-galad could see that the group included Elrond who was
sitting close to a slender, black haired Elf he recognised after a
moment as Erestor. The dog was with them, sitting up straight and
apparently watching the dancers in the cleared, torchlit area off to
the side. Glorfindel and Gil-galad exchanged glances. "Should I call
him for you?" the blonde asked, making as though to rise. The King put
a hand lightly on his arm, halting him.

"Let it be. I think Elros wanted to tell him personally."

Glorfindel, knowing the full tale behind the choice that would take
Elros over the sea and out of their lives forever, wondered if he
simply preferred to give his twin the news in private, without having
to pick his words. For a moment it was on his lips to share what he
knew with Gil-galad, even though there would be no help he could offer
at this late stage, but the story had been shared in confidence. He
hoped that one day Elrond would see fit to tell his cousin. After much
thought, he was beginning to agree with him and with Galadriel that
blind faith in the Valar and their messenger might be less than wise.

Gil-galad took advantage of the surrounding shadows to lean against
Glorfindel in a manner that he hoped would appear to any observers as
nothing more than innocently affectionate, and interrupted his musings
by asking, "So.would you be interested in joining us? I need to be
present as a mark of friendship to the travellers, and on a personal
level I want to wish Elros well. I thought you might like the chance
to see something of Lindon beyond the town and its surrounds. Perhaps
you can persuade Eönwë to tell you the direction your life should take."

Glorfindel flashed him an intimate look and, smiling softly, returned
the pressure, his fingers briefly stroking Gil-galad's wrist. "From
what I've heard, I very much doubt that," he told the King,
remembering Galadriel's words. "But I would like to wish Elros well
and see the fleet sail. And I would be happy to go with you anywhere."

~*~*~*~

It was the day before he was due to leave, and Elros walked slowly
through the palace grounds, eating a peach he had picked up as he
passed through the kitchens. He had no idea if there would be peaches
in Númenor, his future home, but he was certain they would never taste
quite as good as these last fruits of Lindon's summer. He had been
wandering the palace and grounds for hours, alone with his thoughts.
Each time he spotted someone he knew he changed direction, seeking
solitude. He was saying goodbye to the only settled home he had known
since childhood.

At the end of the War they had come to live in the unprepossessing
Hall that Gil-galad then proceeded to transform into a palace that was
unlike the seat of any Noldor King before him. From the start Elros
had been the anomaly, the Half-elf who was more Man than Elf and who
would one day leave to join the Secondborn, to rule a land being
created as a gift for people who were strangers to him, yet over whom
he would be King. From the beginning his days had been filled, at the
insistence of the Herald, with leaning lore and ethics and the skills
of a ruler. He was an obedient, attentive student, unlike his brother
whose concentration at times mirrored that of a kitten, moving swiftly
from one bright, shiny distraction to another. However, the choice had
been his, not Elrond's, and he did his best to fit himself to fill the
role he had taken upon himself.

He had tutors, he had advisors, he had Círdan talking to him about
responsibility and duty and occasionally seamanship, he had lessons in
the arts, in languages. He studied history, and the various forms of
government that Men had so far devised, and he was drilled in the laws
which had been decided upon for the Men of Númenor by the Valar
themselves.

He learned a little more about sword craft, although nowhere near as
much as Elrond. Although Maedhros himself had said he showed promise,
he was not going to be that kind of King, sword-bearing, armour clad,
riding against the enemies of his people. He was being trained to be
an administrator, not a hero.

After a time, Gil-galad had turned his attention to the regime decided
upon by Eönwë, and had found it wanting. He went through the order of
lessons personally, shook his head, and marked in times during which
Elros would take a break so that they could go riding or hunting, and
weekly sessions during which they would discuss Elros' progress.

These sessions in fact turned out to be afternoons given over to
casual conversation about what he had learned and how he would apply
it to whatever problem the King currently faced. As far as possible,
Gil-galad took the theory of the week's lessons and helped him put it
into practice, making it come alive. To begin with Elros' choices were
uncertain, but his errors were brought to his attention with humour
and courtesy, and he soon developed a style that was all his own.

Gil-galad's other intervention was in a matter that neither the Herald
nor Círdan had considered. Occasionally at first, then with growing
regularity, he had Men visit Lindon specifically to meet and get to
know their future king. After a few years, he arranged for Elros to
spend a few months of each year visiting his former guests, getting
used to the likes, dislikes, norms and values of those over whom he
would rule. Elros knew Eönwë was less than content with this, but
until the ship sailed he was under Gil-galad's authority and could
safely leave the Maiar's displeasure to him. It was a secure choice.
For no discernable reason, Gil-galad detested Eönwë.

As the years passed, Elros was expected to visit Forlond regularly,
ostensibly to keep abreast of the progress being made with the fleet
but, more importantly, to meet with and be assessed by the Herald.
These were uncomfortable meetings for Elros, with a being who would
always remind him of the strange pavilion on the beach and the day
life had changed irrevocably. He was polite to the messenger of the
Shining Ones, no more, and nothing more was expected of him. His job
was to go to Númenor, rule, produce an heir, grow old and die. So long
as he did these things efficiently and in the correct order, all was
well with Eönwë.

He had lived these years as neither one thing nor another, avoided for
the most part by the Elves who sought out his brother, who was the
King's default heir and, as such, desirable company. He, on the other
hand, was regarded as a being of mystery amongst those with whom he
instinctively identified, set apart by the training he was receiving
and the months he spent with Ilúvatar's younger children who, for
their part, regarded him primarily as an Elf, and far from being one
of them.

He often resented the studies that left no time to try and prove to
others that he was as Elven in his ways as his brother, but he learned
to be grateful to Gil-galad for insisting he spend sufficient time
amongst Men to be able to speak their common tongue with the barest of
accents and to have a good grasp of the rules that applied at the
dinner table and at social gatherings. Without this grounding he
acknowledged now that he would have been lost even before he reached
Númenor.

His wanderings had led him to the little ornamental lake near the
guest houses on the town side of the palace. Normally he preferred the
small harbour which was used mainly for fishing, trade and sea
transport between the coastal towns, but he would soon be seeing
enough of the ocean. Right now he wanted to look at calm order,
preferably with an Elven flair to it. He had always liked the lake. He
and Gil-galad often came here to talk, to the extent that they had a
favourite spot, a bench situated under a well-established willow tree.

He would miss his cousin. Far more than Elrond could, Gil-galad
understood what he faced and did as much as possible to prepare him.
He preferred not to think about missing his brother. When he finally
told him that the time had arrived, Elrond had sat looking at him out
of still, dark eyes, that uncontrollable hair falling over his face,
one hand reaching halfway towards him before it was withdrawn. They
had an unspoken agreement that there would be no sentiment, that they
would do what had to be done, but for a moment he had a sense of how
empty his life would be without this quicksilver presence, so like him
yet so utterly opposite.

He looked out over the lake, trying to fix the memory of it in his
mind, as he had found himself doing all day with favourite people and
places, while in the back of his mind he heard the cool, emotionless
voice telling him of the perfected land that was being prepared, a
place of security and beauty, far superior to anything to be found on
this shore, and he found his eyes were blurring with unwelcome tears,
despite his promise to himself that there would be no more.

He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he failed to hear the light
footfalls on the grass and the first he was aware of not being alone
was when she sat down on the bench beside him. Galadriel was dressed
in pale blue, a light cloak around her shoulders although the weather
was warmer than it had been for some days. Her exquisite hair was
bound back from her face for once, held in a net studded with tiny
sapphires.

"You treat this upheaval with a grace that brings your foremother to
mind," she said quietly. "I saw you walking and thought you might feel
the need for company for a short time. I will not ply you with
needless questions or empty platitudes, I promise."

He opened his mouth to respond but she shook her head and settled back
on the bench, her hands resting lightly on her belly. They sat in
silence for a while, and then she reached over and took his hand and
held it firmly in hers and he knew she knew. He turned to her, unshed
tears standing in his grey eyes and said softly, "I don't want to
leave home, Lady, I don't want to do this. I don't want to die."

She nodded calmly. "Of course not," she agreed. "The Gift is a matter
of violence and horror to us and we fear and avoid it, even though we
know that we will almost certainly be reborn eventually in Aman.
However, your new kindred measure time very differently to us, and the
Gift is the reward the One sends them at the end, when the body is
tired and worn and all labours are complete. For you, age will come
slowly and with dignity, and eventually you will know when it is time
to leave."

He found he was holding onto her hand like a child listening to a tale
of magic and, childlike, he softly asked the question he had never
before dared speak aloud.

"Does it hurt?"

She smiled and shook her head and reached over to touch his cheek. He
wondered vaguely if she would notice that it was no longer as soft and
smooth as Elven skin should be, but in her eyes was nothing but
tenderness, an expression seen by few save her mate and closest kin.
"At the last you will lie down and sleep and, sleeping, your féa will
pass to the place where the inner selves of the Second born go. No
pain, just a sense of rightness."

She rose and he followed, turning to face her. She took his face
between her long, slender hands and, leaning forward, kissed him very
gently on the forehead. "When that time comes at the last, remember
today and think of Galadriel," she said softly. "I will be waiting in
the shadowplace between worlds to watch with you as you set out on
that final journey. For now though, let go of fear, child. A long,
full life lies ahead of you before then. Live it well."

And with a smile of infinite sweetness that Elros would carry in his
heart as a wall against the darkness, Finarfin's daughter turned in a
swirl of soft blue and the scents of spring and left him to his thoughts.

~*~*~*~

Elrond pulled Laslech down beside him under `his' tree and settled
close against the trunk, trying to find some protection from the wind
which had returned in the early evening. The dog, seeing home directly
ahead, made a few attempts to get up and go indoors in search of water
and sheltering warmth, but eventually subsided and lay obediently
beside him. Elrond sat running his fingers over her head and back,
trying to keep his mind empty.

While Elros had spent the day alone, prowling their home, locking up
memories, Elrond had been left to his own devices. He had finally
taken Laslech and gone down to the section of the beach that was
regarded as an extension of the barracks training ground. Laslech
loved the beach. She could run free, sticks were thrown - Elrond
always remembered to collect a few along the way - and with luck there
might be birds to chase too.

They were soon interrupted, however, when a group of trainees came
down and they were asked to leave. Glorfindel had been busy, Ereinion
had passed him at some point with a comment about dogs and leads
although he showed no inclination to enforce it, and Erestor was
nowhere to be found.

In the afternoon he took a decision he had been working his way around
to for a while and, tracking down his twin said without prelude, "Ros,
I know you have other things on your mind, but I need to talk to you
about Laslech."

For a moment his twin looked blankly at him, then the name fell into
place and he sighed and put on what Elrond had always thought of as
his `listening' expression, which usually meant he was doing anything
but. He had kept quiet till now because a nameless discomfort told him
that this conversation would fail to deliver the desired result, but
he took a breath and pressed on regardless.

"She was an odd choice for a gift, and I know that you have no time
for a dog right now, and I've tried to look after her for you."

"Of course you have and I really am grateful even if I don't usually
say as much. I know you put a lot of time into trying to train her for
me."

"Ros, can I keep her?" There, it was said.

Elros stared at him blankly then shook his head briefly as though to
clear it. "Elrond, I'm sorry, I know you've become fond of her, but I
can't," he said finally. "She was a gift and those who chose her will
travel with me. It will look as though I thought her not.good enough.
I'm sorry, brother, there is no way that I can leave her behind. She
will be well cared for, I promise. Very few Men would trust a king who
neglected his dog, after all."

Elrond ignored the twist of the lip or the bleak look in his brother's
eyes. He was too busy swallowing back his instinctive response to
having his request dismissed so casually. Succeeding, he nodded,
shrugging off the plea as no more than a passing thought, and turned
the conversation to what time Elros and his escort would be leaving.

Laslech, who disliked the wind and had been cooperative for long
enough, got up, shook herself thoroughly, and trotted across to the
tiny patio and in through the half open door without a backward glance
to see if her companion followed, leaving Elrond alone. He sat for a
while pulling idly at the grass and thinking about nothing in
particular. What he really wanted, needed, was to talk to Glorfindel,
but the hour was late and he lacked the nerve to go so far as to
disturb Gil-galad and what was probably passing between them. Finally,
seeing no other option, he rose and followed his brother's dog indoors.

He went through to Elros's room with some idea of saying goodnight and
sharing any other thoughts that might follow, though there was really
nothing left to say after all this time, but Elros was already in bed
and no longer awake.  After a moment, Elrond settled quietly at the
end of the bed and, resting his chin on his drawn up knees, watched
his brother lost in sleep after the manner of the Secondborn, eyes
closed, lips parted. Presently he rose silently and went to fetch a
cushion and Laslech's blanket.

Putting the blanket in the far corner of the room, he pointed her at
it silently, then resumed his place at the end of the bed, where he
sat and watched his brother's face and waited for the dawn.

Chapter 18

S.A. 32 - Lindon

Elros left at first light, wrapped in furs against the cold which
affected him more than was natural for an Elf, a bag containing the
dearest of his treasures slung over his shoulder. Standing in the
doorway facing his twin, Elrond knew that he would never again see
himself mirrored back from another face in this manner, that no one
else shared the memories of the nightmare of their growing years, no
one else would remember him as a child.

Elros reached out a hand, eyes locked with his, and they shared the
warrior's greeting, two clasps of hand to forearm and a meeting of
palms, as they had seen it offered while they were growing up in the
Kinslayers' camps. Elros pulled his brother in for a quick,
unaccustomed embrace, and for a moment they clung as they had not done
since childhood, then he stepped back, nodded, mouthed `I'll write'
and was gone.

Elrond had no idea if there would be anyone to deliver the letters,
but Elros' faith in the generosity of others was similar to Maglor's,
and he let it go.

Afterwards he sat staring at their untouched breakfast, listening to
the large, mounted party setting out from the palace. There were,
mixed in with the horses' hooves, the sounds of the light wagons which
were carrying the baggage of the small party of Men who had come up
from Forlond to escort the new king to his fleet, plus the final few
items Elros had not sent on ahead. Like Laslech, confined like a cat
to a travelling cage.

When he was sure they were finally gone, Elrond went and changed out
of the leggings and shirt in which he had slept, pulled on casual
clothing and, remembering to avoid the place where he had kept the
dog's lead, set off down the garden, looking neither left nor right.
The palace grounds ended in a swathe of grass which dropped away
abruptly in a steep though shallow cliff at the foot of which lay
rocks and then the sea. Elrond halted near the edge and stood staring
out over the water, his arms folded, hands clasping elbows, the
morning wind lifting and tossing his unbound hair around him like a
cloud of smoke.

Out over the sea, far in the West, a star hung low on the horizon,
visible even now in the early hours of daylight. It had been there for
the last few nights, growing brighter, brighter still, signalling the
readiness of the new land and laying a path of light across the sea
for the sailors to follow.

Elrond had no clear idea how it worked that his father sailed the
skies offering light in the darkness, and he didn't much care. He was
out there, leading Elros to the Land of the Gift, into history and
exile. Last time they had needed a father's intervention and
protection he had been sailing as well, on the sea instead of through
the night skies, always absent, leaving his family to fend for itself.

* * *

F.A 532 - Havens of Sirion

The other time, the night Eärendil's presence might have rewritten his
family's history, had been long ago and had set the course for
Elrond's life. Sleeping on a still summer's night, he and his twin had
been roused to unfamiliar, disturbing sounds by their mother shaking
them awake, her eyes dark with terror and memory. The Jewel, the great
heirloom of their House which had only been shown to them once before,
had been clasped around her neck, its otherworldly glow drawing the
eye, even in the dark.

"They're here," she was hissing, in a voice unlike her own. "The same
as last time.they are here, we'll die, they will kill us. It will be
as it was last time, as they killed your uncles, your grandparents."

She had hurried them from their beds, not giving them time even to
dress, taking their hands and leading them from the silent bedchamber.
She was barefoot, Elrond had noticed, and her hair, black and
shimmering, waved loose around her. Her feet barely seemed to touch
the cold flagstones of the passage.

"Why must we go outside?" Elros had asked, trying to slow her down,
get her to explain, but she had jerked his arm, forcing him on.
Elrond, an affectionate child, had been shocked that their mother
should be so rough and, fear starting to edge closer, had done his
best to keep up.

She had taken them out onto the main terrace, which was built high
above the water. This was a place where they were forbidden to play
alone as it was regarded as unsafe, since the railing was small and
delicate, meant for ornamentation, not protection. It was then that he
understood what he had heard on waking - there were sounds of fighting
coming from the houses below, even from the grounds of their own home,
and there were fires burning in places where no fires should burn. He
could hear voices raised, and the screams and cries were clearer to
the ear out in the open, under the clear, star filled, moon bright sky.

He and Elros had stopped as one, trying to understand the
inexplicable. "The Kinslayers, Fëanor's sons," their mother had
gasped, her voice outlined with terror. "Maedhros is here, he must not
get us; he will kill us as he did Ada and Nana." She had been looking
left and right as she spoke, her head darting like that of one of the
little birds she loved, seeking escape, safety.

"We can hide," he had told her, pulling her hand. He and his brother
had been raised strangers to fear, but he was uncertain of this new
mother, this unknown, hunted being. "Come back inside."

"He will not have it," she whispered, not hearing him, not really
aware of them any longer. "He will soak his hand in blood for eternity
but he will not have it. Nor will he have me.my fate is of my
choosing, not his."

She had spun round then, trying to grab hold of them both, draw them
to her, but Elros had darted back and Elrond, truly afraid of her at
last, had acted on instinct, bending to bite the wrist of the hand
that held onto him. She had made a small sound, releasing him, and
then one of her women had arrived. Thelenineth, who had fled with her
from Doriath, and whose husband sailed with their father, had gathered
the twins to her, crying in horror, "Lady, what are you doing? Come,
we must hide."

And Dior's daughter had drawn herself up, her eyes catching light from
the blazing Jewel, and she had cried, "I will not die at their hands
as my family did before me, I will not be sport for them. Give me my
sons, Thelenineth. This way is better, cleaner.do you not remember
what they did with my brothers? They left them to starve." Her voice
had risen to a shriek, and the sound had drawn attention. Footsteps
could be heard pounding down the passage, someone screamed in agony,
and they had burst out into the night, a group of strangers carrying
the torches that had lit the entrance of Eärendil's home, tall Elves
carrying blood-drenched swords, the foremost having hair as red as
glowing coals.

In Elrond's memory what followed seemed somehow to have happened
slowly. Illuminated by torchlight, Elwing had turned and stared as
though transfixed at the red-haired Elf. She had remained absolutely
still for a moment, her hands raised to her face, then she had turned
to run, a hand holding the Jewel almost as though for comfort, pale
light spilling out between her fingers, and when she reached the
railing she leapt straight over it like a young deer. She was still
running as she tumbled slowly, slowly down to the water far below.

There had been shouting, Thelenineth and Elros had both been crying,
and they had been shoved roughly aside as the intruders rushed to the
edge. Standing unnoticed to one side, Elrond had soundlessly watched
the light marking the place where his mother had fallen, still shining
upwards from under the water. Even as the redhead shouted for a boat
to be readied, the light began to move out to sea at a speed which,
young as he was, Elrond knew to be at variance with the strength of
the tide.

Their mother had been mistaken as it turned out, they had not been
killed after all. While they were waiting for the party sent to find
Elwing's body to come back and admit defeat, a tall Elf with night
dark hair and sad brown eyes had come over to them and said briefly to
the leader, "Let these two go. No more children, brother."

The leader had glanced at them, huddled against Thelenineth, shattered
to silence and said, his expression grim, "They will grow, brother,
and draw followers to them, and we have enemies enough."

His brother shook his head, his hand moving close to his sword hilt.
"These are mine. Do what you like with the rest, but these are mine.
There will be no more young voices in my mind, calling for their
mother and keeping me from my sleep."

The leader had looked at him expressionlessly, then down at them, and
something had moved in his eyes - Elrond went back over that moment
many times over the years and could never decide if it had been guilt,
regret, sorrow - then he had said briefly, "The line breeds to twins
it seems. As you will, Maglor, but they come with us. I will have no
dagger for my ribs left here to be raised by Círdan and the new
so-called High King. I had only one interest here - and that bitch has
taken it from us."

Fëanor's remaining sons had not found Elwing, nor the Silmaril, borne
out to sea by an unnatural tide to a place and destiny of the Valar's
choosing. They took in their place Eärendil's sons, Dior's heirs, and
faded back into the wild places from whence they had come.

* * *

S.A 32 - Lindon

The day proceeded in an ordinary and uneventful manner, though to
Elrond the palace always felt different when the King was absent, as
though there was an unfilled space somewhere, a quietness. Gil-galad
involved himself in the day to day details of the running of his
household in a sporadic sort of way, just enough for the staff to feel
he was interested, not enough for it to be seen as interference. In
his absence things went along as they always did, though accompanied
by an air of waiting.

Elrond kept moving. Motion held thought at bay, distracted him from
the reality of going back to an empty apartment, took his mind off the
absence of the bright, inquisitive presence that no longer kept pace
beside him. Elwing's son had experience in dealing with loss, his life
had been drenched in it.

* * *

late F.A., various camps

From the day he had been untied from the horse and put down in the
camp full of Elves who spoke a different tongue, who were rough in
their treatment of him and his brother, and whose armour and weapons
were all too well used, he had learnt not to let them see his heart.
While Elros tried to conform so that he would keep terror at bay
through obedience, Elrond had simply pretended he didn't care. Not
about the lack of food, not about the lack of kindness, not about the
loss of mother and father, certainly not about the weary, saddened,
ever-hopeful Elf who had taken them into his care.

Maglor, drawing on memories of the needs of his younger brothers at
their age, had kept them fed and clothed, and had even attempted
something in the way of education. More importantly in such troubled
times, he was their protector, on two occasions facing his own brother
down over a drawn sword when Elrond's tongue went too far. Maglor it
was who had taught them their lineage and to be proud of it, reminding
his brother when questioned that these were the great grandsons of
Turgon of Gondolin, and in respect to his memory should be treated as
such. This had worked well enough, though when he had started teaching
them the Song of Luthien, Maedhros had drawn the line.

Through it all Elrond had treated Maglor with a cool suspicion that,
as he grew, had matured into a permanent battle of wits between them.
He had shown no gratitude to the tired, disillusioned Elf, offered no
thanks for care and protection or for the glorious voice raised in
song on the nights when fear walked close and sleep refused to come.
Maglor had taken them into his care without reservation, and in public
Elrond showed him the respect that was his due, at all times keeping
the thoughts of his heart to himself.

When they had parted, when Elros had been close to weeping and had
embraced their protector as a father, Elrond had held himself straight
and proud as he had been taught, and nodded when Maglor told him he
would be in touch when things settled down, not believing but nodding
anyway. There were no words of love or regret. He had not told his
mother he loved her, after all. His farewell to her had been his teeth
to her wrist, an act of horror that played over and over in his mind,
and he would give no more to others than he had to her.

Maglor had watched them depart, his face unreadable, though there was
aching loneliness and regret in his dark eyes. Now, he too was gone,
wandering Middle-earth in shame and despair said some, dead said
others, the final victim of his father's Oath. Gone from him as Elros
had gone, as his mother and his father before her had gone, as the dog
was gone.

* * *

S.A 32 - Lindon

Elrond pursued a busy but unexceptional day comprised of a double
session of combat training, plus an hour with the bow, visits to the
barracks and harbour to see what was going on, and several hours
listening to Arthiel, one of the healers, as she explained the various
ways to set a broken arm. The only unusual event involved an encounter
he had near the steep flight of steps cut into the cliffside that led
down to the harbour, an informal shortcut from the palace. He was
crossing the grounds on his way back to lunch when he was hailed by
Lord Círdan, who he had believed to be in Forlond waiting for the new
King of Numenor.

There was no way to avoid the summons so he went over to the
Gil-galad's mentor, who was wearing plain brown leggings and tunic and
an elderly looking dark green cloak. His hair was tied back in the way
of the seaman, which naturally drew attention to his beard. Elrond
found the beard interesting, though knew he was in the minority there.
He could only suppose it appealed to some thread of his mortal
ancestry. He assumed Beren had worn a beard. Tuor, he had been told,
shaved daily in an attempt to fit in with the beardless Elves amongst
whom he lived for most of his life.

"Hîren?" he asked, sketching a show of politeness as he had assured
Gil-galad and, more importantly, Glorfindel that he would.

Círdan surveyed him thoughtfully but kept his council. "I expected you
to have ridden with your brother this morning?"

Elrond's face went bland as a sheet of virgin parchment. "We said our
goodbyes already. There was no point in dragging it out in front of an
audience."

Círdan nodded slowly, accepting the reasoning as being flawed though
consistent. "If you have had a change of heart, I travel to the
Forlond now by water. I would be prepared to wait for you."

Elrond shook his head. "No thank you, Hîren. There's no need for that."

Círdan inclined his head. "In that case, I will be on my way. When I
return we could perhaps spend a few hours discussing what it is you
wish to learn from me? Gil-galad was far from clear, other than the
fact that he had no wish for you to study with Galadriel, with which I
concur. Did you have any objective beyond controlling your abilities?"

Elrond sensed this was an important question, though he had no idea of
the `right' answer so he opted for simplicity. "I just want to make
sure things stop happening by accident. Beyond that I've not thought.
I wondered if you could tell me what was possible, then I could decide."

Círdan looked almost pleased, if that were possible. "We can certainly
discuss that when I return. It seems a sensible place to begin." He
moved towards the steep stairs then paused and turned back. "Was there
anything you would like me to take to your brother? Something he or
you may have forgotten?"

It was on the tip of Elrond's tongue to say that Elros already had the
best gift he could give him in Laslech, then, unbidden, the instinct
that had nagged at him on several occasions in the last weeks
returned, the feeling that he should give his brother the one item
belonging to their family that referred to their mortal ancestry -
Beren's ring, the Ring of Barahir. From earliest childhood they had
both been fascinated by the tale of how it had passed from Finrod
through their great grandfather Beren and thence, finally, to them,
and Elros had in particular been drawn to it. However, hurt about
Laslech, and believing the treasury of a House of Men was no place for
an Elven heirloom, Elrond had kept silent.

The emotions that waged across his face brought Círdan, who had been
concerned at the icy control he had been witnessing, back from the top
of the steps. "If you wish to fetch something, I will wait for you,"
he offered, his tone more gentle than he was accustomed to using with
this spirit of rebellion who put him so much in mind of Lúthien,
Thingol's willful daughter.

"It's in the Treasury, for safekeeping." Elrond hesitated. "I would
have to get someone to unlock it for me and."

Círdan sat down on a convenient tree stump, which had been left in
place as a  seat offering a wonderful view over the harbour. It had
been a favourite spot of Elros', Elrond remembered belatedly.

"Get along and fetch it then," Círdan said equably. "I have time."

^*^*^

The rest of the day had passed. Elrond had taken dinner with the
household instead of eating in his rooms and had wandered the gardens
for a time. He even thought of taking an evening ride along the beach,
but the sky had clouded over and the air had turned chill. The only
good thing about this, from his point of view, was that it lessened
the brilliance of Vingilot, still shining in the West.

He went home by his usual route, along the terrace, through the
garden, and down to the private entrance which Gil-galad had offered
as the right of all young Elves. Elrond had the idea it was something
he would have liked himself at their age. It was full dark. Erestor
would already have come and gone, as no doubt he had in the morning
when Elrond had been looking out over the sea. Someone had
thoughtfully lit a lamp, as he could see through the half closed
drapes, but the door had been left closed.

He went in and looked around, truly alone at last. The fire had been
lit, as were the lamps, and there were fresh flowers on the table. He
stood still for a long time before walking slowly through to Elros'
room. Which was no longer his brother's room. It had been transformed,
and now bore the unoccupied appearance of a guest bedroom. There was
no trace of his twin remaining. Up until then he had been treating
this as he would one of Elros' visits to one of his future
councillor's households. These would last for several weeks, sometimes
months, but the time would pass, bringing Elros back with strange,
interesting gifts and unlikely stories. Then, his personal things had
remained as he had left them, just somewhat neater. Now they were gone.

Elrond stared at the spot on the bed where he had spent the night,
leaving before first light, before Elros could wake and find him, and
have the words from him that sat in his throat as they had for Maglor,
then he backed out of the room breathing carefully as though he were
in pain. He stood in the little hallway between their rooms, his mind
deliberately empty, then crossed over and opened the door to his own
bedroom.

The lamp had been lit in here too - some member of the staff feeling
sympathy for him, no doubt, and trying to make his empty home somewhat
more inviting. His room was as he had left it, of course, just tidier.
There were fresh flowers in here too. And Laslech's blanket had been,
as always, shaken out and folded neatly back in `her' corner. He
stared at this for a long moment and then walked over and bent to pick
it up, with some disconnected thought about putting it away. Instead
he stood holding it loosely, staring down at it. 

To begin with, when she was a small puppy, she had developed a habit
of scratching the blanket up into what was almost a nest, attested to
by little loops and pulled threads. Later, as she grew, the need for
this seemed to subside, though he often woke to the sight of her lying
with her head half under a convenient fold. He had supposed it gave
her security. His hands tightened convulsively on the soft fabric,
then he took a deep breath and went to place it in the chest in the
corner which currently held his summer clothes.

The room felt cold somehow, constraining. Much of his life had been
spent in a place of emotional coldness, frozen since the night on the
terrace when he had hurt his mother to save himself from sharing her
fate. On the nights when he remembered those hours of horror he had
always gone to Ros, to whom he needed say nothing. Elros had kept his
eyes closed at the time and had not seen Elwing's leap, and had cried
for his mother till his grief had quietened in the normal way of the
young. But he knew it was different for his brother and gave him the
comfort of his presence and small words about the events of the day
till the memories settled.

He had no awareness of leaving the room, of exiting the apartment
steeped in memories of his brother and his brother's dog, and laughter
and talking into the night and arguments that passed like summer
lightning and secrets shared and dreams confided. All he knew was that
he was back in the garden, in the dark under the trees, untouched by
the light of the western star that was his father's great ship
carrying the Jewel, and that he had nowhere to go. Gil-galad, whose
calm, solid presence was something he found he wanted with a need that
was almost physical, was with Elros, had always preferred Elros anyway
he suspected, and Glorfindel, as ever, was with the King. 

His body moved through the palace garden, up on the terrace, along
corridors, while his mind remained in a cold dark place, as it had
been the night his mother had stepped onto air, her hand clasping the
Silmaril, as it also had been when he had said goodbye to Maglor and
gone on to the unknown cousin who had been hunting for them for so
many years. As it had been when he had looked into his twin's face
that morning and found no words to offer him, no tears to shed as his
brother left him to go on to honour and death. Elros was going to die.
He thought the words clearly for the first time, and in giving them
reality he had to accept them.

He looked around, to discover he was standing in the passage outside a
door somewhere in the staff quarters. He had only been here once
before, alone that time as well and drawn by his curiosity to find out
where room sixty-two  was. That time he had left without knocking,
despite the fleeting temptation to do so. This time, too, he stood
with his hand raised for a few moments, somewhere between light and
dark, then watched as it reached out seemingly of its own accord and
knocked.

The door opened after a minute, before he had time to reconsider what
he had done and walk away, and Erestor stood there looking at him,
surprise crossing his face, followed by an almost-smile which slid
into concern. He was wearing a loose white shirt and dark leggings and
his hair hung over his shoulders like a fall of glossy black satin,
reaching to his waist. Behind him Elrond could see the room, which
looked very much as he might have expected.  There were drapes and
wall hangings, and soft light from lamps under tinted covers. He
caught glimpses of cushions and two comfortable looking chairs, and
off to the side, under a rich russet cover and tastefully scattered
with cushions to make its presence less blatant, was the bed. He even
noticed and could identify a faint scent, citrus with spicy undertones.

He brought his attention back to Erestor, who seemed to be saying
something, though he was finding it hard to follow words suddenly, and
he tried to explain this by holding out his hands and gesturing
helplessly. Then Erestor moved forward, reaching for him, and he was
brought close against a firm, slender body as strong arms went around
him and caught him as he was falling through coldness and held him safe.

Erestor managed, by moving backwards slowly and carefully, to bring
them both into the room far enough for him to be able to close the
door, then stood still. After a time Elrond reached to put his arms
around his waist, and then, resting his cheek against Erestor's
shoulder and turning his face in against his neck, he wept.


Thelenineth = steady waters
Arthiel = excelling
Vingilot = Foam Flower, Eärendil's ship

Chapter 19

AN1 - Nargothrond, an underground kingdom, stayed hidden from Morgoth
until its lord, Orodreth, let the mortal hero, Túrin Turambar, talk
him into building a bridge across the river and marching openly to war
against the Enemy. It's hard to hide a bridge! In FA 495 the warriors
were drawn away from the city and, while they were fighting for their
lives, Nargothrond was overrun by an army of Orcs led by Glaurung, the
Father of Dragons. None of the captives survived, they were killed on
the road north.

AN2 - anyone not knowing Túrin's history - as heroes go, he's
interesting, in a dark, blood-drenched sort of way. Killed his best
friend by accident, married his sister by mistake... none too
likeable, but very slashable and buckets of angst!

AN3 - sorry I took this long to update - mainly a bad case of Dec/Jan
burnout



The cavalcade travelling along the coast road made an impressive
sight, accompanied as it was fore and aft by riders bearing the
standard of the High King, along with an assortment of other brightly
coloured banners and crests. These included the new colours of
Númenor, as well as the emblem of the House of the Golden Flower of
Gondolin. Their pace was leisurely, dictated largely by the presence
of wagons, which carried gifts selected by the High King and his
Council to be taken over the sea to the New Land as a token of
friendship, and the last few personal items Elros had been reluctant
to send on ahead. Amongst these, confined to her cage, was Laslech,
the new king's dog.

*The road*

Glorfindel, not unexpectedly, enjoyed the journey to Forlond. Already
curious about the expansion of Lindon, he was fascinated by everything
along their route; the new settlements, the cultivated fields, the
orchards, the many signs of the beginnings of prosperity. The early
winter's day was mild, with intermittent cloud and a fairly brisk
breeze, and the scents of sea and growing things combined with the
warmth of the sun on his back to give him a feeling of quiet contentment.

He rode either alone or else alongside Dalbros, the senior librarian,
who was unaccustomed to travel, and was enthusiastically excited to
have been included in the party. He had been invited specifically to
record the details of this unprecedented event for inclusion in the
History of the Kingdom of Lindon which he had recently begun compiling.

The party included a group of Men, mainly sons and younger brothers of
several of Elros' councillors who, on an impulse born of youthful high
spirits, had travelled up from Forlond, wishing to provide a welcoming
escort for their uncrowned King. To Glorfindel's amused surprise, they
got along far better with the assortment of Elven councillors and
nobles and the members of the strongly armed escort of warriors than
would probably have occurred under more formal conditions

Gil-galad rode a little apart from the rest, apparently deep in
thought, not even speaking to Elros who rode in equal silence a short
distance behind him. Glorfindel discreetly watched the future king of
Númenor smile and speak to any who came to ride alongside him, but the
smile failed to touch his eyes and there was an air about him that
suggested company was tolerated rather than sought. Knowing how this
venture had been thrust upon him, the Elf from Gondolin could hardly
begin to imagine what might be going through his mind.

*****

Neither Men nor horses have the endurance of the Eldar, therefore
arrangements had been made for the party to pass the night in a
lightly wooded area just outside a small fishing village, which they
reached late in the afternoon. Those responsible for the travellers'
comfort had gone on ahead while the main party had stopped for lunch,
and by the time the King arrived, tented pavilions had been set up,
fires had been lit, and dinner preparations were already underway.

Glorfindel, having found his designated shelter, noticed that the
royal standard was in the process of being raised above Gil-galad's
tent, and that guards had already been set at the entrance. He smiled
wryly. This was one night he and Gil would definitely be spending apart.

To fill the time before dinner, he decided to explore the village,
taking with him a couple of sticks of charcoal and his new sketch
book, which was already half filled with rough drawings. Art had been
a much-loved pastime in his youth until curtailed by his father, who
insisted this was an unsuitable hobby for the son of a lord. He had
recently confided this to Erestor, whose response, within hours, had
been to present him with a variety of materials to experiment with and
on. Glorfindel found himself actually teasing the dark Elf, suggesting
that this ability to produce the unlikely at such short notice
displayed the makings of an exceptional quartermaster.

Which, in time, would prove to be true.

The village contained no more than a few dozen houses and a
blacksmith's, all huddled around or close to a central square. A
small, open space near the little harbour was hedged with rosemary and
rowan and contained a circle of polished white stones, shoulder high;
this was obviously the village holy place. Glorfindel had heard of
this practice, which was rapidly growing up amongst the Sindar, who in
their turn had obtained it from the Silvan Elves. Despite it being
fashionable to mock such behaviour as unsophisticated, he rather liked
the idea of having a place set aside to go and give thanks to the
Shining Ones and to remember those lost during the times of trouble.

He paused beside it, not liking to intrude in a place that was not his
own, and,  closing his eyes briefly,  made his thanks - for life, for
friends, for the cool sea air, for the merciful fading of his
nightmarish memories, for Gil-galad. Especially for Gil-galad.
Glorfindel, as he slowly adjusted to his new life, remained ambivalent
towards much of it, but not about the King. In a manner that was both
complex and wonderfully simple, he knew that in Gil-galad he had found
the love of his life. No matter what road the future took, no matter
the state of the King's heart, for Glorfindel this love would be
forever, a part of his own personal thread of the Music.

~*~*~

*The palace*

The emotional storm that had torn through Elrond's defenses and sent
him into Erestor's arms ran its course, though not before he had
stammered out a semi-coherent catalogue of the horror and loss that
had filled his life, most of it into Erestor's white-clad shoulder.
Erestor said nothing throughout, simply held him and stroked his hair
and back, eventually guiding him to the bed so that they could sit
together instead of standing in the centre of the room.

When the wracking sobs had finally ceased and even the occasional soft
hiccough of a tear had subsided, Erestor rose and went to open the
prohibitively expensive bottle of miruvor he had bought in case of a
special occasion, and the two small cups out of which it was
customarily drunk. Going back to the bed, he took a moment to consider
his unexpected guest with concern. Elrond sat very straight on the
edge of the bed, with his head bowed and his hair hanging loose and
tumbling wildly around him. His hands were clutching the coverlet,
gripping so tightly the knuckles were white; he looked pale and tense,
with eyes so dark as to seem almost black.

Erestor offered the miruvor and said firmly, "Come on, drink some of
this. It'll help steady you."

Elrond took the cup and looked down at it uncertainly, before putting
it to his lips and sipping the potent liquid. "Half a bottle might do
that," he said in something closer to his usual tones.

Erestor smiled briefly. "It's a very small bottle," he observed dryly.
"Still, even a cup will help. It can't diffuse the pain, but ."

Elrond sipped again, then looked up at Erestor through his hair. "I'm
sorry about.earlier," he said slowly. "It was just - it was too much
this time. It feels as though everyone I love gets taken from me.
Today was just.very hard to deal with. I'm sorry for intruding on you
like this, I'm sorry for making you listen to all that."

Erestor sat down and reached over, covering the hand not holding the
cup with his own. "You came to me, I listened. If there had been more
I could do, I would. No need for apology, ever. The danger with pain
is that if you keep it inside, it confines its poison to your heart.
Eventually either it eats you alive or you grow hard enough to ignore
it. Neither are good, though learning to be hard is worse, I think. It
grinds away at the place in your soul where love grows."

Elrond slanted him a glance from dark eyes. "They make songs about my
family's history for entertainment. Elros will just be one more tragic
hero to add to the list."  He made no attempt to hide the resentment
in his tone.

Erestor nodded, unable to argue with this simple fact. "I know it
hurts to see people you love being reduced to a fireside tale, but if
you only look at the pain you forget the joy. Death is not an ending
to love unless we make it so."

Elrond's face became still and closed and he drew his hand back. "For
us, perhaps. Not Elros," he said flatly. "But, of course, he will make
a lovely song."

Erestor placed a firm hand under the Half-elf's chin, tilting it up so
that he could look into the dark grey eyes, and spoke firmly. "Elrond,
most of us now living have suffered loss of some type. I know it feels
as though you're alone, but you're not. I really do understand."

Elrond had the grace to lower his eyes and give a small nod. "I know
I'm not the only one," he admitted. "I know the stories, I grew up
with them. Still, they tend to make much of my family. it's almost as
bad as coming from Gondolin, I think," he added with an attempt at humour.

Erestor started to tidy the tangle of web-fine hair back from the
Half-elf's face. "Or Nargothrond," he agreed almost conversationally.
"I've had a few days when I've wished the songs could at least have
been written by someone who had actually seen a Dragon."

Elrond turned his head into the tidying hand almost unconsciously and
frowned thoughtfully,  a spark of interest lighting eyes that had
previously been flat and distant. "Have you ever seen one? A Dragon, I
mean."

Erestor paused. Like Elrond, he lived life behind a mask, in his case
not as a defense against pain, but as a means to force the world to
take him seriously. Exotically beautiful, with his slanting, amber
eyes, shining black hair and creamy skin, it had taken several harsh
lessons before he learned that the best response to those who saw no
further than his obvious attractions was a cool, superior attitude and
an acid tongue.

Most people with whom he had dealings very quickly stopped noticing
his appearance, although this, he knew, was not yet the case with the
Princeling. Gentleness and vulnerability had no place in the façade he
presented to the world, nor had the memories of his past, yet these,
his instincts told him, were needed to convince Elrond that he did not
have to deal with this latest grief totally alone.

"Yes, I've seen one," he said in an even voice. "I saw Glaurung himself."
 
Elrond curled onto the bed and, drawing his legs up beneath him to sit
cat-like, assumed a waiting air, the cup forgotten in his hand.
Erestor put his miruvor down on the floor and impulsively crawled
across the bed to sit behind Elrond, who looked back over his
shoulder, startled.  He relaxed when Erestor drew his wayward hair
back before picking up a brush from the little nightstand and starting
to impose some form of order while he talked.

"It was against the rules, but we were walking together - we were all
very young," he began, brushing firmly, his voice soft with memory.
"We'd been sent on an errand to Círdan's people. I remember I was
talking about a visit to the baths and about my mother's cooking. At
any rate, Brethil was the one who first realised something was badly
wrong, though it was Dínen - he was sister's son to my father, he died
during the War - who said he smelt smoke, and.something more. We kept
low after that, and silent,  but even so I think the only thing that
saved us was that they never thought to look so close to the caves for
more victims."

He fell silent, remembering an odour of burning mingled with a foul,
metallic stench with an edge of corruption. The scent of Dragon.

"The bushes down by the river were on fire," he continued, brushing
slowly. "The smoke hid us, so we could get close enough to watch, even
hear. The survivors were mainly women and children. They were
being.herded out onto the long terrace in front of the entrance. The
Orcs were kicking them, driving them along with whips."

His voice trailed off. Elrond shifted back to lean against him, and
placed a steadying hand on his thigh, his own grief for the moment put
aside. Erestor set the brush down and slid an arm round him before
continuing. "There were only six of us, we could do nothing. We
watched them drive our people across the bridge...When it was built,
my great-uncle Gwindor said it would be our doom, and he was right.
Before then, we had been hidden, but the bridge showed Morgoth the
road to our door."

He drew a ragged breath before going on. "The Mormegil was there too,
the Man you'd know as Túrin Turambar. He was standing on the edge of
the terrace near the bridge - they had to pass him before they crossed
it. We heard Orodreth's daughter, Lady Finduilas, screaming at him to
wake up, to help them.She tried to go to him but the Orcs laid hands
on her and pushed her to join the others. He never moved. He just
stood there.bewitched by Glaurung."

He paused, his eyes distant, and began to absently finger the soft
fabric of Elrond's sleeve. "How do I describe Glaurung to you? You
probably need to understand where this happened. There was a terrace,
and then shallow stairs leading down to the bridge and he was lying
sprawled across the terrace with his head resting on the top step." He
was quiet for a moment, his hand still. "For years after, I saw that
head in my dreams," he said, his voice low. "Like a lizard, only -
immense. They had to pass him as they left, close enough to reach out
a hand, close enough to feel his breath on their skin."

There were no words that would do justice to the memory, no way to
explain scales that were a tarnished greenish gold, a body monstrously
immense, so much so that the mind revolted at the sight. Words could
never begin to convey the reality of those heavily muscled forelimbs,
stocky, obscenely clawed, nor the grinning, darkly-crested head,
almost the height of a full-grown Elf. And the eyes. He had caught a
glimpse of the corner of one eye. Red it was, a dark, unhealthy red,
and even that quick glance showed him the power and intelligence of
the serpent, for this was no mere beast, but a sentient being. And
emanating from it, as tangible as the acrid smoke that eddied and
flowed around it, had been an aura of pure malice. Words, he realised,
could only diminish it.

Elrond sat up and turned to face Erestor, and asked in a voice that
was little more than a whisper. "Your family?"

He shrugged slightly, and the amber eyes closed briefly. "I saw my
mother and one sister pass the serpent's head. My other sister..she
was very young. They killed the ones too small to work. Her name was
Galuiel.  My father? I assume my father died fighting on Tumhalad.  I
never found anyone who knew for sure."

"How do you bear it?" The words came unbidden to Elrond's lips, asking
the question that had coloured his own life for so many years. He was
kneeling with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, leaning forward
slightly, his expression intent. Erestor considered him thoughtfully,
then placed his hands firmly over Elrond's, and summoned an attempt at
a smile.

"I was angry and in pain for a very long time," he admitted. "We were
a close family. But my pain was overwhelming the good memories I had
of them - so I let it go."

"Our kind go to Mandos," Elrond said quietly. "And later some are
reborn in Aman. You will find them again some day. Not my brother. His
death will be absolute."

Erestor shook his head and smiled properly this time. "Who knows how
death might change the reborn fëa? And I live here, not in the West.
No. All I have for comfort is what I offer you. As long as we keep
their memory fresh and etched in love, as long as there is a voice to
tell their tale, those we love will never leave us."

He slid his arms around Elrond, and moved gracefully into his
answering embrace. As the Half-elf's cheek came to rest against his
hair, he added, "Believe this, Elrond, and your brother will never die."

*~*~*

*The road*

Glorfindel explored the narrow streets, made a few brief sketches of
the harbour and outlined a view of the houses surrounding the square,
which he thought he might later expand into a painting, though he
suspected he was being overly ambitious. After this, he immersed
himself in the lines and curves that slowly shaped themselves into a
picture of the circle of stones with the sea behind it. So involved
did he become in this that it was only the fading of the light that
made him realise he was in danger of missing dinner.

No one stopped to speak with him in the village, either during the
time he spent there or at his departure, though he knew many pairs of
eyes had been following his progress with interest. The few Elves he
passed on his way back to the camp nodded and made the gesture of
respect, fingers to forehead, which was normally reserved for great
lords. They were partially right, he thought, with a small clench of
sadness round his heart, not for the rank which had once been his, but
for all he had lost with the passing of its relevance.

On his return, he found dinner being served and most of the company
already eating. He joined the small group still gathered at the
makeshift table - a board resting on two strips of wood - from which
the remaining fish, pork and venison was being portioned out, and was
waiting his turn when a member of the escort came up behind him,
holding out a well-laden plate.

"His Majesty noticed your absence, my lord, and asked me to see to
this for you. He said you would prefer the fish?"

Glorfindel turned, feeling the warmth in his face and hoping the blush
wasn't obvious in the gathering dusk. No matter how he tried, this was
something over which he seemed to have no control. "Fish was a rarity
in Gondolin," he explained with a quick smile. Taking in the plate's
contents, he added, "And thank you, this was well-chosen."

The warrior nodded confirmation. "Fish, well cooked, and a mixed
salad, his Majesty said. And bread, not bratan. He was very clear
about that." 

Bratan were strongly spiced wheat cakes, highly popular in Lindon, but
foreign and unpalatable to the newcomer.

Most of the travellers had taken their food and gone to sit around the
fire which had been built up within stones in the centre of the
clearing, but Glorfindel found a quiet spot on the grass under a tree,
made himself comfortable and began to eat. He had always kept a little
apart, shyness being a barrier to the easy mingling that happened
apparently effortlessly around him, and he had learned to take
pleasure in being a spectator instead of a participant at social events. 

He was suddenly taken by a feeling of unreality as he watched the
scene before him. Men and Elves mingled in small groups, while the
smoke rising from the fires danced in the glow of the lanterns which
shone amongst the trees, strung there partly for the convenience of
the Men, who lacked Elven sight after dark, partly for love of the
atmosphere they created. Voices were talking, laughing, raised in
song, all blending in harmony with the unseen, murmuring presence of
the sea.

Gondolin had been a land of firmly imposed order, with accepted rules
for public conduct. This relaxed sharing of food, interlaced with easy
companionship and snatches of melody would have been deeply frowned
upon. For the King himself to be part of it, to be wandering around,
plate in hand, stopping to talk to first one group then another as he
had been when Glorfindel had returned, would have been unthinkable. He
sat, bread in hand, feeling dislocated as he had not for some weeks,
trying to reconcile the sense of unreality, of being in two places at
once, of being two people - for the Glorfindel of Lindon was
developing into a very different person to the insecure, withdrawn
Glorfindel of Gondolin.

"Ah, there you are, Glorfindel. May I join you?" Dalbros, holding two
cups of wine, stood looking down at him. Brought solidly back to the
present, solitude no longer an option, Glorfindel smiled a greeting
and was soon caught up in conversation. Reality returned and the sense
of dislocation gradually retreated.

*****

After he had eaten, Glorfindel scraped his plate, left it on the stack
to be washed and, after helping himself to an apple from the fruit
offered in lieu of dessert, decided on a short walk before steeling
himself to join the crowd sitting around the fire. This time he went
up to the road, thinking to go as far as the watch station which had
been set up a short distance from the camp. He had not gone far before
he saw Gil-galad, who was standing looking out over the sea at the
strange new light shining brilliantly in the West. Glorfindel was
surprised to see that Laslech was with him, leashed and sitting
obediently beside him, waiting, as Elrond had taught her, till they
could move on.

He approached them unhurriedly, ignoring the sense of eyes on his back
and telling himself firmly not to be fanciful, no one was watching,
and, even if they were, this was nothing more than an innocent
conversation. Gil-galad, alerted by Laslech's excited bark and wagging
tail, turned and smiled an invitation, his eyes lighting with welcome.

"I should have thought of this," Glorfindel said, smiling a greeting
and gesturing to the dog. "She hated being in that cage. I should have
taken her with me when I went to look at the village, too." 

Earlier in the day, hearing the dog barking for attention, he had
dropped back a few times to ride beside the wagon on which she was
being transported, along with an assortment of crates and baskets, but
his presence had only caused her to whine and scratch to be released.
Concerned by her obvious fear and confusion, he had finally decided it
would be best to let her alone in the hope that she would accept the
situation and settle down.

"They let her out on the road a few times, but otherwise.. I was going
to ask someone to take her for a walk, but it seemed easier to do it
myself," Gil-galad explained, reaching down to gently tug one of the
young dog's ears.  "I wanted to have a look at the view anyway.it's
almost as bright as day."

They stood together, watching the unearthly glow of Vingilot sailing
low  across the sea in the West. Glorfindel, who remembered the coming
of the moon and the wonder it had engendered, had been surprised the
unnatural light was accepted in so matter of fact a manner, but the
Eldar had seen many strange things since that first moonrise, not all
of them good, and they were less easily over-awed.

"I expected Elrond to change his mind in the end and ride with us," he
remarked, kneeling down beside the dog. She licked him with less than
her usual exuberance, confused by the cage and the journey and not
understanding the reason for what, in her world, could only be a
punishment for some unfathomable error.

Gil-galad shook his head, his eyes following the flight of a gull, as
clearly outlined against the sky as it would have been by moonlight.
"It would be harder to keep up a front at the last, and there'd be too
many eyes watching. I'm guessing they said what needed saying days
ago. It's the way they are."

Glorfindel nodded slowly. "I should have tried to talk him into coming
along anyway, or else stayed behind myself," he said, putting an arm
round Laslech and petting her. "I was wrong to leave him alone like this."

"We'll only be gone a few days," Gil-galad replied, shrugging with the
smallest touch of impatience. Glorfindel's regular concern for Elrond
tended to unsettle  him for reasons he preferred not to analyse.
"He'll be more likely to need support once the reality's had a chance
to set in.  Whatever he's dealing with now could hardly be worse than
the strain of putting on a face with everyone watching to see how he
coped."

Glorfindel shot him a glance. The remark had the edge of bitter
experience to it. He was reminded of Elrond's comments about Gil-galad
having to cope with the news of the destruction of Nargothrond and the
deaths of his father and sister whilst he was in Círdan's care, and
living amongst strangers. Deciding to keep the conversation light, he
sought a less sombre topic. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself
earlier?" he said, making it a question. "You spent a lot of time
talking with the Men. You enjoy their company, don't you? The
Second-born generally, I mean, not just this group."

Gil's mouth pulled in a wry smile. "They have a lot to recommend them,
I find," he admitted. He glanced around, confirmed they were alone and
came and sat down next to Glorfindel, stretching his legs out before
him and leaning back on his hands, close enough for their shoulders to
touch. He gave Glorfindel a sidelong, considering glance, before
saying slowly, "I have spent almost my whole life being compared to my
predecessors - to Fingolfin and Fingon, to Turgon, to my uncle Finrod.
To the Second-born, these names are unimportant. There has only been
one High King of the Elves for several generations of their kind.
Amongst them I need not feel I am continually being measured."

He stopped a moment and compressed his lips, then he glanced at
Glorfindel with a rueful smile before leaning against him and pushing
him lightly. The smile failed to reach his eyes; they were watchful,
waiting for judgement or disapproval. "I think Elrond had to hear some
of this the night I got drunk," he admitted. "I'm completely sober
tonight - hopefully I'm less self-pitying, too. It's just - very hard
to walk in their shadows sometimes."

Glorfindel let go of Laslech, who had found peace in familiar company
and was lying waiting for Elrond to come and fetch her home. He turned
to face Gil, and placed a hand over one of his, knowing they were
visible to anyone else who might care to walk along the road from the
camp, knowing too that touch was essential to someone as tactile as
the King. He understood how difficult it had been to share this
confidence. Gil-galad's eyes met his, and offered his vulnerability as
a gift.
 
"Turgon accepted isolation for us," Glorfindel said, choosing his
words carefully. "I think it was the wrong choice - it left us trapped
and unprepared when the attack came. Fingon was ill-advised, too
inclined to listen to Maedhros who, in his turn, was driven by his
father's Oath, not the good of the Eldar. And Fingolfin." He looked
again at the light on the water, remembering another light, a
powerful, larger-than-life personality. Something of this showed in
his face, and he looked suddenly his age, one of the dwindling number
of the Aman-born still to be found in Middle-earth. 

"Fingolfin was a great king, a wonderful leader. At the end, his
choice was more impulsive than wise, but he did what he felt was
right." He paused, turning back to Gil. "You remind me of him a
little, perhaps. You have the same strength, the same love for your
people. But you also need to remember, those times were different. I
have seen them all, Gil.  I even - barely - remember Finwë, and I
believe that for this Age and this place, you are the best King we
could have. I think, in time, you could show yourself greater than all
of them."

Gil-galad turned his hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing
briefly. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes, which appeared
almost silver in the strange light, told Glorfindel it had been
enough. They sat together, hands linked, with Laslech dozing beside
them, and watched the light of the last of the Silmarils marking a
pathway across the sea.


Brethil - birch
Dínen - silent one
Galuiel - good fortune
Mormegil - Dark Sword - one of the names Túrin Turambar was known by.