meretricula (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
meretricula) wrote2006-07-02 08:06 pm
meretricula) wrote2006-07-02 08:06 pm
Entry tags:
well, I couldn't stay away forever...
since it distresses me that almost all of my recent entries have been me whining about my personal life, and definitely not about the slash, I bring you... yet more LotR! Damn, this fandom has fish-hooks in me.
(Themes from30_romances. I haven't claimed Erestor/Glorfindel officially yet, since I prefer to be at least half done when I commit to anything, but god knows nobody else is snapping up LotR couples anyway.)
Glorfindel watched Erestor for years before he dared approach him. Every morning Elrond's chief advisor stalked out of the great house and made his solitary way to the practice yard, where he threw knives at whatever tree he had designated his target. Every morning Glorfindel observed the counselor's progress, not unlike the approach of a thundercloud, past brightly garbed elves of the court, all of whom scattered like butterflies in a strong wind. Every morning he resolved to speak to Erestor. Every morning, he backed away. Partly this was due to Glorfindel's vestigial retiring nature, which never showed itself in front of his troops but surfaced frequently in interpersonal affairs. However, his reticence in this case was more largely due to the fact that Erestor always looked deeply annoyed with life before breakfast, and his knives never missed.
On the morning that Glorfindel finally worked up the nerve to speak to Erestor, however, the counselor descended to the practice courts with a glint in his eyes and what closely resembled a bounce in his step. The courtiers dispersed even more rapidly than usual, since an unpredictable Erestor was even worse than the cranky bastard Erestor they'd all learned to deal with. That morning, Erestor glanced over at his blond spectator, winked almost imperceptibly, and threw his last knife straight into the trunk of the next tree over from his target. "Oops," he said, smiling as he shook his head. "How clumsy of me. It's Glorfindel, correct?"
Glorfindel blushed deeply. They had never been introduced. "Yes, Counselor Erestor."
"And you are the new junior captain of the guard. Congratulations, incidentally. You're quite young to have achieved the honor. Would you care to tell me what I did wrong on that last throw?"
"I couldn't presume," Glorfindel murmured. "You're far better with throwing knives than I am."
"Still," Erestor pressed. "If you were forced to hazard a guess."
"Perhaps your arm grew tired," Glorfindel suggested helplessly.
"Hmm. And here I thought I was distracted by the pretty blond watching me." Erestor bared very white teeth in a fox-like grin. Glorfindel immediately turned his head to look for Celebrian, and Erestor's grin grew into a low, rich laugh. "Oh, sweet child. You've been watching me practice for years. Did you think I hadn't noticed?"
"I'm sorry," Glorfindel whispered, mortified.
"No, I am the one who should apologize, for I did not mean to embarrass you. I thought I would come to you today, since it did not seem that you would ever come to me. Should I not have said anything, Glorfindel?"
"I - I do not know, whatever you wish," the blond elf stammered.
Erestor's laughter rang out again, and he reached for Glorfindel's hands, catching them in his own. "You truly are a sweet child, and I thank you for the compliment you have paid me with your attention." He frowned, and added, "Your hands are like ice! Are you cold?"
"N-no, they're always like that..." But Erestor was not listening.
"You should dress more carefully; the air is chill yet. Here, take my cloak. I must return to the house and read illegible musty records for the rest of the day, but be sure you stay warm!"
Erestor turned, leaving Glorfindel standing there with the cloak clutched in his nerveless fingers. "I'll return it at dinner," he offered, before Erestor could go too far to hear.
"No, keep it, child. I've others, and the color suits you better than me." Before Glorfindel could reply, he was out of earshot. The blond elf remained in the yard for a few minutes longer, holding the blue cloak with cold hands.
Fire. Fire everywhere, all he can see, oh dear elbereth his skin is on fire...
Glorfindel woke up not screaming but whimpering and scrambled out of bed, half-expecting his naked skin to be charred black when he looked down at himself. But the fire was only in his head, only in his dreams, and instead of burned his skin was merely slick with fear-sweat.
He looked at his bed, a tangle of sheets that smelled sour and stale, and looked away. He wasn't tired enough to go back to sleep tonight. So he threw on a pair of trousers and a loose shirt - he hated the robes that most of the elves in Rivendell wore; they restricted movement - and padded out of his room in bare feet, heading for the Fire Hall, where he could sit up and wait for dawnlight to crawl through the windows.
He heard the person in the hall before he saw him - the soft rasp of metal on stone and a sort of tuneless humming. Then Glorfindel made his final turn and stepped into the room, and saw Erestor seated by the banked fire, a whetstone in his hand and a line of knives, neatly arranged by size, on the floor beside him. "Don't you sleep?" Glorfindel asked, before he realized how rude the question was.
Erestor glanced up and smiled. "On occasion," he replied lightly. "Don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he beckoned for Glorfindel to come join him. The blond elf obeyed, seating himself gingerly on Erestor's left, where he would not disturb the row of sharp-edged objects. For a long time, the only sound in the hall was the hiss of Erestor's whetstone on his blades and the soft click as he set them down.
"I had a nightmare," Glorfindel blurted out eventually.
"Really? What a coincidence," Erestor said, gently enough that there was no hint of mockery in his words. "So did I."
Glorfindel gaped at him, unable to believe that Erestor, the most competent elf in the valley with the possible exception of Lord Elrond, could be disturbed by anything badly enough to dream of it. "About what?" he asked, again without thinking until too late that he might offend his companion. But then, Erestor was not offended by rudeness, only stupidity.
The dark-haired elf shrugged. "I fought in the War of the Ring, child. I've buried enough friends to dream about watching them die."
Glorfindel gulped and fell silent once more. When he found his voice again, it was softer, more hesitant. "I dream of fire."
Erestor looked over at him, patiently waiting.
"There's fire... all around me, I'm trying to fight it but my sword is so hot it burns my hands, I drop it and then I'm on fire, my skin is burning and it hurts..." Glorfindel stared deep into the glowing embers in the fireplace, and started when Erestor lays a hand on his shoulder.
"I had a friend, in the War. A human. He swore that the only way to keep nightmares away was to listen to someone sharpening a knife. The sound of the whetstone scares away the spirits that bring bad dreams." Erestor smiled wryly. "Of course, the problem is that you need someone else to do it, but since I happen to be here with my dullest throwing knives..." He tugged at Glorfindel, insistently, until the other elf leaned down and rested his head on Erestor's shoulder. "Go to sleep, child."
Glorfindel didn't mean to, but the rasp of the whetstone was soothing, even if he didn't believe in evil spirits to be frightened away. Erestor worked his way through his knives, from the large one he kept in his belt to the tiny one that fit inside his hair-clip, and when he was finished he watched the light of the rising sun creep its way across the wall.
Glorfindel watched Erestor and the weaponsmith bandy insults back and forth, torn between fascination and jealousy. Fascination, because Erestor amid the soot and dirt of the forge was a completely different creature from the Erestor of high collars and higher-level vocabulary who sat on Elrond's council. Jealousy, because he wanted to be the one able to effect such a change in the counselor.
"Glorfindel!" Erestor called him over, smiling in a way that made the young elf's stomach flip-flop. "Come, I require your artistic judgement."
Glorfindel blushed and obeyed, hovering on the far side of Erestor from the grimy, foul-mouthed smith. "Yes, Master Erestor?"
"What color should I make the pommelstone?" Erestor asked. The smith snickered, and was not at all discomforted by the irritable glare that Erestor shot him.
"A matter of true importance, surely, never mind the balance or the strength of the blade," he remarked.
"Oh, shut up, Celefin," Erestor replied absently. "Well, Glorfindel?"
"It's your sword," Glorfindel protested. "You should decide!"
"But I asked you to come with me so you could help me." Erestor tilted his head to one side, and finally inquired, "What is your favorite color, then?"
"Blue," Glorfindel blurted, thinking of his first meeting with Erestor and a certain blue cloak.
"Blue it is, then," Erestor said decisively. "I'll return for the sword when you've put the last touches on it, Celefin."
"Oh, yes, Master Erestor, your worship, sir, no trouble at all, it's not as though I have other commissions piling up while I work non-stop on your rush order," Celefin muttered sarcastically. Erestor clapped him on the shoulder and led Glorfindel out of the forge.
It was a bit strange, really, for Erestor to suddenly commission a sword, and in such a hurry, too. Glorfindel had no doubt that Erestor could use a long blade, since Erestor was frighteningly competent and in Glorfindel's mind could do absolutely anything, but he never seemed to practice with anything other than his throwing knives and, on very rare occasions, a pair of longer daggers for dueling. But it would have been impertinent to question the counselor, so Glorfindel followed him in obedient silence.
*
A week later, Glorfindel had put the mystery of Erestor's new sword behind him, and so was completely puzzled to receive a long, narrow box from the older elf at morning practice. He opened it to reveal a sword with a blue pommelstone.
"Happy birthday," Erestor said, smiling, without a hint as to how he'd known the day's significance when Glorfindel hadn't breathed a word about it. "Use it well."
"Oh, Glorfindel..." The sing-song voice came from just beyond the blond elf's open office door. Glorfindel gritted his teeth and ignored it. Sooner or later, his tormentor would get bored or hungry, and leave him alone. "Glorfindel, you are becoming a dull, grumpy stick-in-the-mud far before your time, and I shan't have it! Come out and play! Or do you want the whole valley to think you've grown into a boring workaholic like Lord Erestor?"
Glorfindel's head snapped up. "I'll thank you not to insult our lord's chief counselor in that fashion, Lindir," he said sharply, before realizing that he'd fallen straight into the flighty young minstrel's trap. Now that he'd acknowledged his one-time playmate's presence, he'd never be rid of him.
"Somebody's awfully angry for such a little thing," Lindir teased him, before he interrupted himself with a loud yowl. "Ouch! Melpomaen, what did you do that for?"
Lindir's normally shy shadow planted his hands on his hips, looking thoroughly unrepentant for pinching his friend. "You know better than to speak of Master Erestor like that," he reproved Lindir. To most his voice would sound breathy and hesitant, but both Glorfindel and Lindir could hear the annoyance edging his habitually soft voice.
Glorfindel gave up on his paperwork and pushed back from his desk, examining his two friends. Lindir was a few years older than he, and Melpomaen a few younger, but they'd all run throughout the valley wreaking havoc together when they were elflings. Glorfindel had left most of his childhood pranks behind when he'd taken up the responsibilities of a captain of the guard (even a very junior one), but Lindir still ran as wild as ever, often dragging Melpomaen along with him into whatever trouble he'd stirred up.
Melpomaen and Lindir were as different as sun and shadow, and every bit as inseparable. Lindir's shock of white-blond hair was forever uncombed, tangling in every breeze, while Melpomaen never had a dark lock out of place. Lindir was rosy-cheeked and robust from his adventures out-of-doors, but Melpomaen was pale as a ghost most of the year, and only formed a passing acquaintance with the sun through the weak rays of light that penetrated the musty vastness of Lord Elrond's library. The most pressing difference between them, however, was their personalities. Lindir was loud, outgoing, and a cheerful pain in the ass to every disciplinarian who'd ever had the care of him. Melpomaen was shy and nearly silent; he idolized Lord Elrond and particularly Counselor Erestor for taking him in after his parents had been killed by orcs. Lindir wanted to sing in the Fire Hall in order to earn the adulation of all who heard him; Melpomaen's life ambition was to become a librarian. Glorfindel was exceedingly fond of both his childhood playmates, but when Lindir got it into his head to be annoying, Melpomaen usually followed him to observe, and the presence of even a disapproving audience made Lindir's antics infinitely worse. When the two were united, as they were at the moment over their quest to remove Glorfindel from his office, forcibly if necessary, they were unstoppable.
"All right, what do you want?" he asked, resigned, when Melpomaen and Lindir had resolved their minor scuffle.
"My dear Glorfindel!" Lindir exclaimed, with a surfeit of melodrama. "Merely the pleasure of your company, sweetest of companions, not a thing more than that."
"I told him I wouldn't have a snowball fight with him if you didn't come," Melpomaen explained quietly. "It's really not the same at all without you. And you've worked hard enough to take a break now and then, you know."
"This coming from you?" Glorfindel snorted, but Melpomaen's desire to reunite the terrible trio struck home, as he had known it would.
"I'm not working now, am I?" his dark-haired friend replied, smiling.
"Fine, then," Glorfindel sighed. "But only until lunch. After we eat I have to come back and finish reading these reports."
"Bo-ring!" Lindir sang out, but Melpomaen nodded in understanding, his gentle smile lingering as he shepherded his two friends out of the Last Homely House, and into the snow-covered courtyard. Then he stepped back to watch the snowballs fly, secure in the knowledge that neither of his companions would dare to nail him with one. The one and only time Lindir had aimed a snowball at his bookish playmate, his mattress had mysteriously ended up out on the frozen Bruinen. Their tutor had believed it was one of Lindir's pranks, and had sent him back out to fetch it. At night. In the cold. Lindir still had no proof that Melpomaen had done it, because Melpomaen still refused to confess.
They might have had little respect for his aim, but both Glorfindel and Lindir feared Melpomaen's inventive nature.
About a half hour after the commencement of hostilities with Lindir, Glorfindel was ready to end the war - after a stunning display of his own military genius that put the mere minstrel thoroughly in his place, of course. He slipped behind a column to form a snowball, taking the extra time to brush off any uneven spots, leaving a perfect white sphere. Then he darted out of his cover to hurl his perfect snowball at Lindir. The minstrel ducked, and Glorfindel watched in frozen horror as his perfect snowball made a perfect collision with Counselor Erestor's (perfect) face.
Melpomaen's giggling and Lindir's battle-cries immediately died away, draping the snowy yard in silent dread. Glorfindel squeezed his eyes shut to await this inevitable lecture on responsibility, and avoiding unfortunate influences, and at the very least, looking where he was hurling his projectiles.
He was thus completely surprised by the sudden cold, wet sensation of having snow shoved down the back of his neck. His eyes flew open, and the first sight that greeted them was the vulpine grin on Counselor Erestor's usually stern face. "Next time, aim for the stomach," he advised. "It's harder to avoid." He bent, scooped up a handful of snow, and in seconds had hurled a perfectly packed snowball into Lindir's midriff. "Like so." As Glorfindel gaped, the ancient elf brushed the snow off his black robes and strolled back into the house, completely unconcerned by the dripping trail of melting snow he left behind him.
"Hey, Lindir," Glorfindel said, once the Counselor was out of earshot. "Do you still think he's a boring old workaholic now?"
Lindir wheezed.
"He's too young," Elrond said quietly. Erestor glanced up from the window, where he was watching a division of the guard run through their drills. "Erestor, it can't be worth it."
"I don't know about that," Erestor replied, turning his gaze back to the window. "He has enough in beauty to make up what he lacks in years."
"Erestor!" Elrond glared. "I'm serious!"
Erestor watched Glorfindel's messy plait fly out behind him as he demonstrated a quick turn-and-block combination, almost wistfully. Elrond observed his expression but attributed it to a desire to be outside; Erestor had never truly settled down into his role as Counselor in the valley. "So am I, Elrond. I am very serious about him."
"He's still too young. A few more centuries, perhaps, and it will make little difference, but... he's seen so little. Sooner or later his ignorance will bore you, and your experience will cripple his curiosity."
"I understand why you say that. And I would agree with you. But..." Erestor's voice trailed off.
"But?" Elrond prompted.
"His eyes are old, Elrond. Have you never noticed? He's seen more than he knows. Whatever it is that he cannot remember... his soul has not forgotten. He has never been young - naive, and idealistic, and terribly foolish at times - but I have never seen the void of experience in him that you speak of." He shook his head, still watching Glorfindel execute drills with inimitable grace. "But perhaps it is merely hope that makes him seem so to me."
"Erestor, you don't..."
"Ah, but I think I do."
"Only time will tell," Elrond said at last, reluctantly. "He is of age, and I cannot stop you. I wish you joy, if this is your choice."
"Choice? When had I a choice?" Erestor murmured under his breath, but Elrond had already left.
I decided to do something different with this couple, if you hadn't noticed. Erestor is a tough old bastard instead of just crotchety, and Glorfindel is a fresh-faced young guardsman with a terrible crush. Glorfindel has been reborn in Rivendell long after his death in Gondolin, but he has no memory of how he died. It's going to come up later in the series, I have a feeling. Anyway, enough of my rambling. I bring you fic; read, if you so please!
(Themes from
30_romances. I haven't claimed Erestor/Glorfindel officially yet, since I prefer to be at least half done when I commit to anything, but god knows nobody else is snapping up LotR couples anyway.)Glorfindel watched Erestor for years before he dared approach him. Every morning Elrond's chief advisor stalked out of the great house and made his solitary way to the practice yard, where he threw knives at whatever tree he had designated his target. Every morning Glorfindel observed the counselor's progress, not unlike the approach of a thundercloud, past brightly garbed elves of the court, all of whom scattered like butterflies in a strong wind. Every morning he resolved to speak to Erestor. Every morning, he backed away. Partly this was due to Glorfindel's vestigial retiring nature, which never showed itself in front of his troops but surfaced frequently in interpersonal affairs. However, his reticence in this case was more largely due to the fact that Erestor always looked deeply annoyed with life before breakfast, and his knives never missed.
On the morning that Glorfindel finally worked up the nerve to speak to Erestor, however, the counselor descended to the practice courts with a glint in his eyes and what closely resembled a bounce in his step. The courtiers dispersed even more rapidly than usual, since an unpredictable Erestor was even worse than the cranky bastard Erestor they'd all learned to deal with. That morning, Erestor glanced over at his blond spectator, winked almost imperceptibly, and threw his last knife straight into the trunk of the next tree over from his target. "Oops," he said, smiling as he shook his head. "How clumsy of me. It's Glorfindel, correct?"
Glorfindel blushed deeply. They had never been introduced. "Yes, Counselor Erestor."
"And you are the new junior captain of the guard. Congratulations, incidentally. You're quite young to have achieved the honor. Would you care to tell me what I did wrong on that last throw?"
"I couldn't presume," Glorfindel murmured. "You're far better with throwing knives than I am."
"Still," Erestor pressed. "If you were forced to hazard a guess."
"Perhaps your arm grew tired," Glorfindel suggested helplessly.
"Hmm. And here I thought I was distracted by the pretty blond watching me." Erestor bared very white teeth in a fox-like grin. Glorfindel immediately turned his head to look for Celebrian, and Erestor's grin grew into a low, rich laugh. "Oh, sweet child. You've been watching me practice for years. Did you think I hadn't noticed?"
"I'm sorry," Glorfindel whispered, mortified.
"No, I am the one who should apologize, for I did not mean to embarrass you. I thought I would come to you today, since it did not seem that you would ever come to me. Should I not have said anything, Glorfindel?"
"I - I do not know, whatever you wish," the blond elf stammered.
Erestor's laughter rang out again, and he reached for Glorfindel's hands, catching them in his own. "You truly are a sweet child, and I thank you for the compliment you have paid me with your attention." He frowned, and added, "Your hands are like ice! Are you cold?"
"N-no, they're always like that..." But Erestor was not listening.
"You should dress more carefully; the air is chill yet. Here, take my cloak. I must return to the house and read illegible musty records for the rest of the day, but be sure you stay warm!"
Erestor turned, leaving Glorfindel standing there with the cloak clutched in his nerveless fingers. "I'll return it at dinner," he offered, before Erestor could go too far to hear.
"No, keep it, child. I've others, and the color suits you better than me." Before Glorfindel could reply, he was out of earshot. The blond elf remained in the yard for a few minutes longer, holding the blue cloak with cold hands.
Fire. Fire everywhere, all he can see, oh dear elbereth his skin is on fire...
Glorfindel woke up not screaming but whimpering and scrambled out of bed, half-expecting his naked skin to be charred black when he looked down at himself. But the fire was only in his head, only in his dreams, and instead of burned his skin was merely slick with fear-sweat.
He looked at his bed, a tangle of sheets that smelled sour and stale, and looked away. He wasn't tired enough to go back to sleep tonight. So he threw on a pair of trousers and a loose shirt - he hated the robes that most of the elves in Rivendell wore; they restricted movement - and padded out of his room in bare feet, heading for the Fire Hall, where he could sit up and wait for dawnlight to crawl through the windows.
He heard the person in the hall before he saw him - the soft rasp of metal on stone and a sort of tuneless humming. Then Glorfindel made his final turn and stepped into the room, and saw Erestor seated by the banked fire, a whetstone in his hand and a line of knives, neatly arranged by size, on the floor beside him. "Don't you sleep?" Glorfindel asked, before he realized how rude the question was.
Erestor glanced up and smiled. "On occasion," he replied lightly. "Don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he beckoned for Glorfindel to come join him. The blond elf obeyed, seating himself gingerly on Erestor's left, where he would not disturb the row of sharp-edged objects. For a long time, the only sound in the hall was the hiss of Erestor's whetstone on his blades and the soft click as he set them down.
"I had a nightmare," Glorfindel blurted out eventually.
"Really? What a coincidence," Erestor said, gently enough that there was no hint of mockery in his words. "So did I."
Glorfindel gaped at him, unable to believe that Erestor, the most competent elf in the valley with the possible exception of Lord Elrond, could be disturbed by anything badly enough to dream of it. "About what?" he asked, again without thinking until too late that he might offend his companion. But then, Erestor was not offended by rudeness, only stupidity.
The dark-haired elf shrugged. "I fought in the War of the Ring, child. I've buried enough friends to dream about watching them die."
Glorfindel gulped and fell silent once more. When he found his voice again, it was softer, more hesitant. "I dream of fire."
Erestor looked over at him, patiently waiting.
"There's fire... all around me, I'm trying to fight it but my sword is so hot it burns my hands, I drop it and then I'm on fire, my skin is burning and it hurts..." Glorfindel stared deep into the glowing embers in the fireplace, and started when Erestor lays a hand on his shoulder.
"I had a friend, in the War. A human. He swore that the only way to keep nightmares away was to listen to someone sharpening a knife. The sound of the whetstone scares away the spirits that bring bad dreams." Erestor smiled wryly. "Of course, the problem is that you need someone else to do it, but since I happen to be here with my dullest throwing knives..." He tugged at Glorfindel, insistently, until the other elf leaned down and rested his head on Erestor's shoulder. "Go to sleep, child."
Glorfindel didn't mean to, but the rasp of the whetstone was soothing, even if he didn't believe in evil spirits to be frightened away. Erestor worked his way through his knives, from the large one he kept in his belt to the tiny one that fit inside his hair-clip, and when he was finished he watched the light of the rising sun creep its way across the wall.
Glorfindel watched Erestor and the weaponsmith bandy insults back and forth, torn between fascination and jealousy. Fascination, because Erestor amid the soot and dirt of the forge was a completely different creature from the Erestor of high collars and higher-level vocabulary who sat on Elrond's council. Jealousy, because he wanted to be the one able to effect such a change in the counselor.
"Glorfindel!" Erestor called him over, smiling in a way that made the young elf's stomach flip-flop. "Come, I require your artistic judgement."
Glorfindel blushed and obeyed, hovering on the far side of Erestor from the grimy, foul-mouthed smith. "Yes, Master Erestor?"
"What color should I make the pommelstone?" Erestor asked. The smith snickered, and was not at all discomforted by the irritable glare that Erestor shot him.
"A matter of true importance, surely, never mind the balance or the strength of the blade," he remarked.
"Oh, shut up, Celefin," Erestor replied absently. "Well, Glorfindel?"
"It's your sword," Glorfindel protested. "You should decide!"
"But I asked you to come with me so you could help me." Erestor tilted his head to one side, and finally inquired, "What is your favorite color, then?"
"Blue," Glorfindel blurted, thinking of his first meeting with Erestor and a certain blue cloak.
"Blue it is, then," Erestor said decisively. "I'll return for the sword when you've put the last touches on it, Celefin."
"Oh, yes, Master Erestor, your worship, sir, no trouble at all, it's not as though I have other commissions piling up while I work non-stop on your rush order," Celefin muttered sarcastically. Erestor clapped him on the shoulder and led Glorfindel out of the forge.
It was a bit strange, really, for Erestor to suddenly commission a sword, and in such a hurry, too. Glorfindel had no doubt that Erestor could use a long blade, since Erestor was frighteningly competent and in Glorfindel's mind could do absolutely anything, but he never seemed to practice with anything other than his throwing knives and, on very rare occasions, a pair of longer daggers for dueling. But it would have been impertinent to question the counselor, so Glorfindel followed him in obedient silence.
*
A week later, Glorfindel had put the mystery of Erestor's new sword behind him, and so was completely puzzled to receive a long, narrow box from the older elf at morning practice. He opened it to reveal a sword with a blue pommelstone.
"Happy birthday," Erestor said, smiling, without a hint as to how he'd known the day's significance when Glorfindel hadn't breathed a word about it. "Use it well."
"Oh, Glorfindel..." The sing-song voice came from just beyond the blond elf's open office door. Glorfindel gritted his teeth and ignored it. Sooner or later, his tormentor would get bored or hungry, and leave him alone. "Glorfindel, you are becoming a dull, grumpy stick-in-the-mud far before your time, and I shan't have it! Come out and play! Or do you want the whole valley to think you've grown into a boring workaholic like Lord Erestor?"
Glorfindel's head snapped up. "I'll thank you not to insult our lord's chief counselor in that fashion, Lindir," he said sharply, before realizing that he'd fallen straight into the flighty young minstrel's trap. Now that he'd acknowledged his one-time playmate's presence, he'd never be rid of him.
"Somebody's awfully angry for such a little thing," Lindir teased him, before he interrupted himself with a loud yowl. "Ouch! Melpomaen, what did you do that for?"
Lindir's normally shy shadow planted his hands on his hips, looking thoroughly unrepentant for pinching his friend. "You know better than to speak of Master Erestor like that," he reproved Lindir. To most his voice would sound breathy and hesitant, but both Glorfindel and Lindir could hear the annoyance edging his habitually soft voice.
Glorfindel gave up on his paperwork and pushed back from his desk, examining his two friends. Lindir was a few years older than he, and Melpomaen a few younger, but they'd all run throughout the valley wreaking havoc together when they were elflings. Glorfindel had left most of his childhood pranks behind when he'd taken up the responsibilities of a captain of the guard (even a very junior one), but Lindir still ran as wild as ever, often dragging Melpomaen along with him into whatever trouble he'd stirred up.
Melpomaen and Lindir were as different as sun and shadow, and every bit as inseparable. Lindir's shock of white-blond hair was forever uncombed, tangling in every breeze, while Melpomaen never had a dark lock out of place. Lindir was rosy-cheeked and robust from his adventures out-of-doors, but Melpomaen was pale as a ghost most of the year, and only formed a passing acquaintance with the sun through the weak rays of light that penetrated the musty vastness of Lord Elrond's library. The most pressing difference between them, however, was their personalities. Lindir was loud, outgoing, and a cheerful pain in the ass to every disciplinarian who'd ever had the care of him. Melpomaen was shy and nearly silent; he idolized Lord Elrond and particularly Counselor Erestor for taking him in after his parents had been killed by orcs. Lindir wanted to sing in the Fire Hall in order to earn the adulation of all who heard him; Melpomaen's life ambition was to become a librarian. Glorfindel was exceedingly fond of both his childhood playmates, but when Lindir got it into his head to be annoying, Melpomaen usually followed him to observe, and the presence of even a disapproving audience made Lindir's antics infinitely worse. When the two were united, as they were at the moment over their quest to remove Glorfindel from his office, forcibly if necessary, they were unstoppable.
"All right, what do you want?" he asked, resigned, when Melpomaen and Lindir had resolved their minor scuffle.
"My dear Glorfindel!" Lindir exclaimed, with a surfeit of melodrama. "Merely the pleasure of your company, sweetest of companions, not a thing more than that."
"I told him I wouldn't have a snowball fight with him if you didn't come," Melpomaen explained quietly. "It's really not the same at all without you. And you've worked hard enough to take a break now and then, you know."
"This coming from you?" Glorfindel snorted, but Melpomaen's desire to reunite the terrible trio struck home, as he had known it would.
"I'm not working now, am I?" his dark-haired friend replied, smiling.
"Fine, then," Glorfindel sighed. "But only until lunch. After we eat I have to come back and finish reading these reports."
"Bo-ring!" Lindir sang out, but Melpomaen nodded in understanding, his gentle smile lingering as he shepherded his two friends out of the Last Homely House, and into the snow-covered courtyard. Then he stepped back to watch the snowballs fly, secure in the knowledge that neither of his companions would dare to nail him with one. The one and only time Lindir had aimed a snowball at his bookish playmate, his mattress had mysteriously ended up out on the frozen Bruinen. Their tutor had believed it was one of Lindir's pranks, and had sent him back out to fetch it. At night. In the cold. Lindir still had no proof that Melpomaen had done it, because Melpomaen still refused to confess.
They might have had little respect for his aim, but both Glorfindel and Lindir feared Melpomaen's inventive nature.
About a half hour after the commencement of hostilities with Lindir, Glorfindel was ready to end the war - after a stunning display of his own military genius that put the mere minstrel thoroughly in his place, of course. He slipped behind a column to form a snowball, taking the extra time to brush off any uneven spots, leaving a perfect white sphere. Then he darted out of his cover to hurl his perfect snowball at Lindir. The minstrel ducked, and Glorfindel watched in frozen horror as his perfect snowball made a perfect collision with Counselor Erestor's (perfect) face.
Melpomaen's giggling and Lindir's battle-cries immediately died away, draping the snowy yard in silent dread. Glorfindel squeezed his eyes shut to await this inevitable lecture on responsibility, and avoiding unfortunate influences, and at the very least, looking where he was hurling his projectiles.
He was thus completely surprised by the sudden cold, wet sensation of having snow shoved down the back of his neck. His eyes flew open, and the first sight that greeted them was the vulpine grin on Counselor Erestor's usually stern face. "Next time, aim for the stomach," he advised. "It's harder to avoid." He bent, scooped up a handful of snow, and in seconds had hurled a perfectly packed snowball into Lindir's midriff. "Like so." As Glorfindel gaped, the ancient elf brushed the snow off his black robes and strolled back into the house, completely unconcerned by the dripping trail of melting snow he left behind him.
"Hey, Lindir," Glorfindel said, once the Counselor was out of earshot. "Do you still think he's a boring old workaholic now?"
Lindir wheezed.
"He's too young," Elrond said quietly. Erestor glanced up from the window, where he was watching a division of the guard run through their drills. "Erestor, it can't be worth it."
"I don't know about that," Erestor replied, turning his gaze back to the window. "He has enough in beauty to make up what he lacks in years."
"Erestor!" Elrond glared. "I'm serious!"
Erestor watched Glorfindel's messy plait fly out behind him as he demonstrated a quick turn-and-block combination, almost wistfully. Elrond observed his expression but attributed it to a desire to be outside; Erestor had never truly settled down into his role as Counselor in the valley. "So am I, Elrond. I am very serious about him."
"He's still too young. A few more centuries, perhaps, and it will make little difference, but... he's seen so little. Sooner or later his ignorance will bore you, and your experience will cripple his curiosity."
"I understand why you say that. And I would agree with you. But..." Erestor's voice trailed off.
"But?" Elrond prompted.
"His eyes are old, Elrond. Have you never noticed? He's seen more than he knows. Whatever it is that he cannot remember... his soul has not forgotten. He has never been young - naive, and idealistic, and terribly foolish at times - but I have never seen the void of experience in him that you speak of." He shook his head, still watching Glorfindel execute drills with inimitable grace. "But perhaps it is merely hope that makes him seem so to me."
"Erestor, you don't..."
"Ah, but I think I do."
"Only time will tell," Elrond said at last, reluctantly. "He is of age, and I cannot stop you. I wish you joy, if this is your choice."
"Choice? When had I a choice?" Erestor murmured under his breath, but Elrond had already left.
I decided to do something different with this couple, if you hadn't noticed. Erestor is a tough old bastard instead of just crotchety, and Glorfindel is a fresh-faced young guardsman with a terrible crush. Glorfindel has been reborn in Rivendell long after his death in Gondolin, but he has no memory of how he died. It's going to come up later in the series, I have a feeling. Anyway, enough of my rambling. I bring you fic; read, if you so please!
no subject
no subject
no subject
http://leviosa8.livejournal.com/391837.html#cutid1
yes? no? crack? dies?
no subject
no subject