Some Futile Hope by Luxa

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Part One: Chapter Two

Glorfindel learns a little about Elrond and a lot about his problems, so he sets out to help the Half-elf.

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Second Age, July 10th, 1685. 8:17 A.M.

It was as much of a surprise to Glorfindel as it was to everyone else when Elrond Halfelven appeared at the entrance to the training quarters. The Gondorian warrior had spent the past fortnight training the youngest and most inept Elves to wield a sword, deciding it was prudent to start off with the most inexperienced and work his way up. He was making good progress, as these Elves were eager to learn and almost all of them displayed some degree of talent.

He usually spent the first ten or twelve hours of his day training these Elves, then went to relax in his rooms or, if invited, dined with Elrond and the High King. However, he had never seen the war minister actually in the fighting quarters before, and as Elrond stepped foot onto the practice grounds, Glorfindel began to understand why.

Elrond was ethereal in the harsh sunlight, surrounded by young Elves with sun-streaked hair and brown skin. Glorfindel had never seen the Elf in full sunlight before, as they always dined after dusk. His pale skin glowed with an unhealthy pallor, and his long, formal robes were at odds with the sweat-stained tunics of the trainees.

Glorfindel heard the whispers start the moment Elrond walked in. Elves all around him were jeering, ridiculing, and whispering insults about the pale Elf. 'The High King's pet' and 'Gil-galad's bitch' were two of the nicest ones, and there were a few that Glorfindel wouldn't repeat under threat of torture. Glorfindel understood now Elrond's unhappiness at being called Loremaster- that was commonly tacked onto the end of an insult, such as 'the harlot Loremaster' or 'the whore Loremaster.'

This angered Glorfindel. This greatly angered Glorfindel. Over the past fortnight he had begun to greatly respect Elrond for his immense scholarly knowledge, not to mention his ability to reign in the often erroneous King. Hearing these Elves, who had probably never even spoken to Elrond, say cruel and terrible things like this was nearly unbearable to listen to.

Elrond wasn't immune to the insults. While he held his head high, there was an undeniable flush creeping across his cheeks, and his eyes begged for Glorfindel to hurry up and talk to him. His slender fingers were gripped together in an iron-like vise, and Glorfindel quickly bowed his head to the student he had been about to spar with and strode over to Elrond.

"Ereinion insisted that I bring you these papers," said Elrond quietly, not meeting Glorfindel's eyes. He reached into his robes and pulled out the sheaf of papers in question. "I apologize if you have difficulty reading them. I do not have exemplary handwriting."

Gil-galad had mentioned this paperwork- he'd said he'd have Elrond send it over yesterday. It was a roster of all the Elves registered with the army and their evaluated skill level, and Glorfindel had anticipated that it would help him a great deal. The papers, however, were not what mattered at the moment. He reached over and took the sheaf with shaking fingers, unable to contain his rage.

"Elrond-" he began.

"I know what you are going to say," said Elrond, still not moving. "Please, don't say it. Not in front of them. We can talk later."

With that, the Elf turned on his heels and left as quickly as he could without running. Glorfindel was left with a group of sneering young Elves that he suddenly liked considerably less.

Second Age, July 10th, 1685. 3:43 P.M.

When Glorfindel entered Elrond's office, he found Elrond talking to a younger Elf dressed in the same serious garb as Elrond. As he approached he saw the the Elf had the same pale skin as Elrond, plus deep bags under his eyes. When he saw Glorfindel, he bowed and quickly exited.

"That was Erestor," said Elrond in response to Glorfindel's look. "He is a young scholar, and comes to me when he finds himself stumped. But no matter, as I doubt you care much for the problems of bookworms."

Glorfindel examined Elrond as he pulled up a chair. His eyes were rimmed with red, and he made no attempt to hide the wet handkerchiefs piled neatly on a corner of his desk.

"Their words bother me more than I care to admit," said Elrond wryly, gesturing to the handkerchiefs. "It is not easy to hear such words so carelessly thrown at you, especially not from so many."

"They do not respect you," admitted Glorfindel heavily.

"Nor should they," said Elrond evenly. "I have done nothing to gain their respect. I am no fighter. I have spend more than a millennia studying, not training. I cannot make up for that."

Glorfindel gritted his teeth. "You have done nothing to be called a harlot, a pet, or a whore, either."

Elrond closed his eyes briefly, and Glorfindel felt a pang of anger at himself, for reminding Elrond of those insults so easily. Then Elrond opened them again, and his gray eyes were made of steel.

"I know. As I have mentioned previously, I was appointed to this position by Ereinion. It is solely due to his insistence that I sit at this desk. I did not approve, and I still don't, but I have tried my best to fulfill my responsibilities. Now I fear that it will not be enough. I sense a war coming, a war that will set something larger in motion. I cannot allow someone as inept as myself to hold this seat, and although Ereinion will be...very indisposed...towards me, I will resign if I see the need."

"There's no need for that," Glorfindel found himself saying.

Elrond raised an eyebrow in quiet disbelief. "Oh no?"

"You plan to resign because the army does not respect you, and if they do not respect you than you cannot effectively lead them, right?"

"And I have no experience, do not forget that."

Elrond leaned his well-shaped face on his ink-stained fingers and smiled. "What are you thinking, Yellow Flower?"

Glorfindel scowled at the nickname, but said, "If you need experience and respect, show them that you deserve it. Practice with them, train with them. Show them that you are worthy of your station and that you did not gain it by currying favor."

"I doubt that showing them my ineptitude for fencing will help me gain their respect," protested Elrond, smiling wider.

"Train with me in secret, then go out and befriend them."

"Yes, befriend them. Sounds easy. They have only been demeaning me for two hundred years."

Two hundred years? "Why haven't you told the High King?"

"He is a good King, but he has been raised as such since birth. He does not understand the subtleties here, the fragile ecosystem. If he were to punish them, which he would do in a brash and unforgettable manner, I would never know peace again. No, better Ereinion think that I am almost happy in this position."

"So, what do you think of my plan?"

"I like it."

And Elrond laughed.

"Valar help me, I like it."

Second Age, July 11th, 1685. 5:55 A.M.

Glorfindel met Elrond in Gil-galad's private training field the next morning and was surprised to find Elrond there, five minutes early, polishing his sword. He was wearing a too-large tunic cinched with a belt over a pair of equally large trousers.

"They're Ereinion's," said Elrond, before Glorfindel said anything. "I'm afraid my last set of training tunics have crumbled to dust and I never bothered to replace them. The High King is a fair bit wider than me in the shoulders...and the waist."

"It'll do for today," decided Glorfindel. "But try to get a new set or two as soon as possible. You need to be comfortable before you can seriously train."

Elrond nodded seriously and sheathed his sword. The blade was long, longer than Glorfindel had seen at the practice halls in Lindon or even when he had fought in Gondolin. He could not remember seeing such a long handle for hundreds of years, not since before the First Age. The color of the sheath, brown with gold tengwar, was also unusual. Most Elves wanted brighter colors or colors that matched their liege lord, not brown. Glorfindel squinted at the tengwar and discovered that he couldn't read it.

"It's not tengwar," explained Elrond. "It's Rúmil's original alphabet. It's a bit archaic, even for a Valinorian like yourself."

"What does it say?"

Elrond met his gaze evenly. "For my eldest son, Maedhros. May your begetting day be the start of a fruitful life."

Glorfindel's mouth dropped, if only slightly. His throat suddenly seemed to have completely dried up and he found himself incapable of speaking. He swallowed and managed to say, Elrond's all too understanding eyes watching him, "Is that safe to have here, in Lindon, with so many refugees of Nargothrond and Gondolin around?"

"As you may have noticed, it is not exactly easy to read. Those few with the knowledge usually have accepted the Fëanorians' actions. I refuse to renounce any part of my allegiance of those who raised me. It is not a bond easily broken."

Glorfindel lowered his head in agreement, and when he raised it Elrond looked immensely relieved.

"Oh, good," he sighed, his pale face breaking out into a nervous smile. "I was afraid you'd refuse to teach me on moral grounds. It's happened before."

"Your personal beliefs have nothing to do with me teaching you, and if you wish to use a sword made by the greatest smith who ever lived, who can fault you there?"

Elrond nodded sharply. "Are we to train with real swords or practice swords?"

Glorfindel, assuming that Elrond would be proficient enough to parry with real swords, hadn't expected the question, and Elrond's handsome face flushed when Glorfindel didn't answer.

"I-It's been a long time since I've practiced, and as embarrassing as it is to admit, we might be better off using-"

Glorfindel cut him off with a wave of the hand. "That's fine. I'll go fetch a set of practice swords, wait here."

He set off for the outbuilding where Gil-galad kept his training supplies, trying to hide his own blush. When Elrond looked at him with those big gray eyes framed by those thick eyelashes, biting his full lower lip in nervousness, stuttering his apprehension for swordplay, it made Glorfindel understand what had attracted Gil-galad to a young Elrond over a millennia earlier...

By the time Glorfindel returned, he had composed himself. He threw one of the wooden practice swords to Elrond and was pleased to see that he caught it, however awkwardly. He instructed Elrond to set aside his real sword, which he did quickly.

Glorfindel watched Elrond's stance carefully. It wasn't a complete mess, but it wasn't good. He shifted his weight onto his right too much and he wielded the sword with only his left hand, despite the wooden sword's weight. Glorfindel refrained from commenting on it, deciding to see Elrond's fighting style first.

"We'll spar, okay?" said Glorfindel. Elrond nodded.

Glorfindel lunged, and Elrond parried it with a quick, jerky block. Glorfindel continued to attack, and each time Elrond barely managed to block the blow. Each hit visibly jarred Elrond's arms, and his face reddened each time his arm was clumsy.

"Stop," ordered Glorfindel, and Elrond lowered the sword at once.

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but Glorfindel beat him to it.

"If you're going to apologize, don't. You need not be embarrassed about your skills in swordplay. I have no doubt that if I were to step foot in Lindon's libraries that I would soon be hopelessly lost."

"Are you saying that I'm hopelessly lost?" retorted Elrond, cheeks still red.

"No, it was an analogy," said Glorfindel reassuringly. "You're doing fine, but you need a lot of practice. Don't be ashamed of it, and don't think about anything other than the swordplay when you're training. Your mind must be here, not off worrying about whether or not you'll be good or mess up or anything, okay?"

Elrond glanced up at him with such a grateful look through those long eyelashes and licked his lips so coyly that Glorfindel felt the sudden need to loosen a collar that wasn't there. He had to be doing this on purpose! There's no way someone could be so accidently torturous!

"You're a lifesaver," breathed Elrond, unconsciously batting his eyelashes. "Where would I be without you?"

"Erk," replied Glorfindel.