Anor and Ithil by Haeron

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Chapter 16

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TA2752

 

Glorfindel looked over the rim of a wine glass at the merriment in the Hall of Fire. He could not remember the last time he had been seated as everyone else danced and sang and wove their happiness about one another. Times had changed and with them; everything else. It was a strange thing he wished he did not have to weather alone, for adrift in Arda’s Third Age he already felt without losing too the small foothold he had gained.

 

But where is Erestor now? Where rides my heart? The fires that Glorfindel sat by did not warm his skin, only the wine he held in his mouth for long moments before swallowing. The fires did not warm him as much as the mere thought of Erestor’s body in closeness, of the warmth that they had made together.

 

He crossed his legs. He held his eyes closed a moment and saw the dancing flames behind his eyelids. The song was indistinguishable from all the others that had been played. The voices in the crowd had blended into one, one merry mass of elves who would fall to bed tonight with one whom they loved and wake again in loving arms.

 

What blessings they had, each of them, to be bound so tightly.

 

And then Glorfindel could have laughed at himself, thinking up such absurd wisdom in his moping solitude. The wine was potent tonight and heady, he would have more and more and more...

 

‘Glorfindel.’

 

Elrond. There was no mistaking the voice.

 

‘Elrond.’

 

Glorfindel received a look from the Lord who rounded his chair to stare before him, a look rather like being analysed. It was clear that it was sympathy that held Elrond back from remarking harshly upon his state and Glorfindel almost wished that it was not so.

 

Elrond smiled vaguely, and produced a small bound book from robe sleeve.

 

‘Avail yourself of this, found this afternoon by fortune’s favour in a saddle bag left forgotten in my counsellor’s chamber.’

 

Glorfindel met Elrond’s eyes; grey and dark and always shining with some distant emotion that could not be placed. Elrond’s eyes narrowed a little. Glorfindel looked away, wondering what secrets he might have given away in such a brief exchange of glances.

 

‘He came to you last night?’ Elrond asked.

 

Oh.

 

‘He did.’

 

‘Ah.’ Ah, indeed. ‘Take the book, Glorfindel.’

 

Glorfindel took it. It was a delicate thing, made for Erestor’s slim hands to carry hither and thither and well used by the look of the worn spine. An ache of fondness seized Glorfindel’s heart of such passionate pain he could not help but stoke; for if the heart bled did it not mean that it lived, if only for fleeting moment? He would marvel at Erestor’s cartography beside the fire tonight, and Glorfindel wondered if perhaps he held a book of Council notes.

 

And he would have read every word even if they had been, even if they spoke of matters foreign to him. Glorfindel, however, found it was not so when he opened the small book. It fell open easily at a certain page, and he read it with widening eyes.

 

‘What is it? Elrond asked, quietly, kneeling beside his old friend who ached for his other. He did not look down upon the pages of the book.

 

‘Poetry,’ said Glorfindel, reading his heart’s words. ‘That he wrote of me.’

 

Glorfindel’s smile faltered.

 

‘And some we wrote together.’