Our Side of the World by Ulan

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Enemies (E/Adult)

The thing about Erestor is that it is difficult to decide whether one wants him dead or pushed against a wall with his robes hiked up above and around his thighs.

To Lana, who requested an enemies-to-lovers story.

Eru Iluvatar, if it is true that everything is in accordance to his grand design, must have a peculiar sense of humour.

Glorfindel cannot help but think this as he stares at what has to be the most beautiful sight of his life. Coming toward him is long black hair flowing straight down, framing perfect pale skin that runs temptingly down a long neck, red lips, slightly flushed cheeks, and those usually clear green eyes now clouded still with traces of sleep. Glorfindel watches the way the grey silk tunic moves and wraps around that slender body as it settles on the seat in front of him.

The very sight of this creature inspires songs and poetry in Glorfindel's mind - not to mention dark, wicked thoughts he would never admit to even under threat of torture. Everything about the Elf pulls one to stare and indeed, there Glorfindel sits, dumb and helpless, unable to resist that call.

"Captain," sweetly said in that deep, honey-smooth voice. "If you have something to say to me, please do so instead of staring like a loon. Or did you intend for me to gouge those pretty blue eyes with my butter knife?"

Oh, but for it to be him - what was Eru thinking, creating such a creature?

Years of practice is all that Glorfindel has in his own defense, enough so he could say back: "It is a beautiful morning, Counsellor. Do not ruin it any more than your dour presence has already done."

Erestor only spares Glorfindel a withering glance before he shifts his disdain to the bowl of oatmeal he now has in front of him. What displeases him so, Glorfindel can only surmise, for he picked the item himself instead of the other things spread on the table for them to break their fast.

Truly, Glorfindel thinks as he watches Erestor scowl at his food, Melkor must have had the time of his life, composing the music for creatures of evil like Counsellor Erestor.

 

 

Until now, Glorfindel cannot decide whether Erestor disliked him instantly at the moment of their meeting, or whether Erestor truly has no ability to be in favour of anyone.

Glorfindel has known Elves like him in his considerably long life, people in positions at the middle ground, and who are therefore under constant strain from both the residents of a city and from the lords that govern it. Always needed, always facing some crisis or another, always under the public eye - it is no wonder they were quick of temper and sharp of tongue, for nothing ruins one's day worse than the perceived ineptitude of a subordinate under less pressure than one's self, and nothing gets a job done quicker than issuing commands in a tone that summons fear.

Ah, but Erestor - this one has turned tyranny into an art form, one he extends beyond the Elves under his direct supervision.

"We are behind on those maps and I do not understand why." Erestor has been on this tirade for the entire morning, one about patrols and obsolete maps and who knows what else, for certainly Glorfindel cannot always follow him in these meetings. "We are expecting rains to come soon and often now; I cannot believe how badly the dry season was wasted. Forgive me, Captain - did you want to study the landscape in the rain, while the Bruinen threatens to flood over the hillsides?"

Erestor reprimands like a bitter old scholar whose students were foisted on him as payment for years of debt. How he became this way, Glorfindel can only hope to guess, but it tests him even on better days.

"Cartography is a skill, Erestor, and hardly something one wakes up and decides to do," says Glorfindel, trying and perhaps failing from keeping his own annoyance from seeping through his voice. "The delay is in your scholars deeming the reports inadequate, which should not have been a surprise as they were done by warriors who know not what they are doing. Why not send one of your assistants in the field with us instead of having them complain about something we are not even competent to do?"

"Our cartographer lies among the ruins of Eregion and we have few who would do better than the soldiers," says Erestor, ever cold and tactless. "All you shall be doing is giving yourselves another set of headaches. Scholars of lore out in the wilderness? Are you an idiot?" Erestor shifts his gaze from perusing the scroll Glorfindel earlier provided and up to meet Glorfindel's eyes. "That last part was rhetorical, in case you missed it."

Glorfindel has to grit his teeth to keep from retorting, for they were now at the point in the conversation where everything goes downhill. He has learned to recognise the signs over the years and, as always, he finds himself taking the higher road and being the one to prevent things from getting any worse.

He exits the room, politely excusing himself more for the pressures of his upbringing than for any pleasantness he thinks Erestor might deserve. Had Glorfindel been the type who would look at such things, he would probably wonder more about Erestor and whatever it is that gives him the gall to speak with Glorfindel in such a manner. He supposes that it is true that Erestor had also been a lord at some point, hence the title, but a lord of what and for how long, Glorfindel does not know. There is nothing about Erestor that allows one to delve deeper into his story and background, for too busy would one be with being offended and keeping oneself from throttling the chief counsellor by the neck.

 

 

The thing about Erestor is that it is difficult to decide whether one wants him dead or pushed against a wall with his robes hiked up above and around his thighs.

It is not vanity, Glorfindel decides, as he finds himself once again in Erestor's office. The counsellor is standing over his desk as he scans through Glorfindel's new request, allowing Glorfindel some time to observe him in peace.

It does not seem as though Erestor spends extra hours in his day primping and grooming himself any more than any other Elf. He wears his hair much like the other counsellors do, and his robes are rather standard that Glorfindel would not be surprised if Erestor picked them all out from the seamstresses' ready designs.

No, Erestor would not have the time nor interest for superficial things. Nevertheless, his hair seems the softest that Glorfindel has ever seen, and the robes he wears fall perfectly around his body like second skin. He is naturally tall and slender, and when he moves, he does so thoughtlessly, yet always he appears smooth and elegant, hardly walking but gliding down the halls, and every blink in Glorfindel's direction feels like pure seduction.

But when Erestor opens his mouth, it is like hearing the drums of Thangorodrim all over again.

"This amount is ludicrous," Erestor exclaims, as Glorfindel knew he would. "I do not care if the calculations took you all night; we simply do not have the resources you demand. We are a mere settlement still, Captain, not some kingdom with gold around its encircling mountains." Glorfindel flinches at the thinly veiled barb, especially when he was just entertaining ill memories of the past, but Erestor does not even look at him anymore. "Redo the calculations and give me a number I can actually work with."

"I do hope you realise that settling any lower would affect the results you yourself has set," says Glorfindel. "I can revise the proposal, but I do not want to hear any complaints like the ones you made on the maps."

This, of course, earns Glorfindel a glare. "Is it too much to hope that one so wise and experienced could address a problem so simple as a minor shortage?"

"If you want miracles, then I suggest praying at the temples of the Ainur. Meanwhile, I shall be busy stretching what resources you throw so reluctantly to the same army that ensures you can even go to bed in peace at night!"

Life in Imladris, and really even as far back as life in Lindon, could have been more peaceful and pleasant had he not been saddled with being the other end of Elrond's inner circle - which, nowadays, is really just composed of Glorfindel and Erestor. Glorfindel dreads each time he runs an idea through Elrond, only for the Lord of the Valley to pass the idea along to Erestor for his opinion. Most especially, he dreads this most when the idea reaches Elrond just after Glorfindel bypassed Erestor.

"I think this is workable," says Elrond of the same proposal Erestor had just spent the entire afternoon bringing down when it was just between him and Glorfindel. "If we push ourselves a little, and maybe ask Gil-galad for aid, the returns would be more than worth it. You do not think so, Erestor?"

Erestor outwardly looks as put together as he always does, standing in the middle of Elrond's office. Glorfindel, however, has observed him long enough to recognise the tension on his shoulders and the tightness around his mouth.

"It is a gamble, and should it fail, it is wasteful and would seem foolish at the end of the day." Erestor turns his head and smiles pleasantly at Glorfindel. "But if you are so optimistic of success, my lord, then of course it can be done. In any case, we are stable enough that we can afford to stumble and fall on our faces every once in a while."

What Glorfindel hates the most about Erestor is that he is, more often than not, right about most things. It is therefore discouraging when he is so opposed to something, but Glorfindel also knows him to be naturally tight about releasing Imladris' reserves, and so Glorfindel stands by his own proposal this time around. Erestor overseeing the resources of the valley is an obstacle for everyone, but perhaps a miser in such a position is a necessary evil for every kingdom.

They leave Elrond's office together, which, of course, brings them to a whole new different battlefield once again.

Erestor turns to Glorfindel the moment they are out of hearing range. "If you will only bring to Elrond the same thing to which I have already objected, then perhaps next time you should bring everything else to him directly, so as not to waste my time."

Glorfindel sighs, exhausted by it all. "Erestor, for the love of the Valar. If you make everything difficult, I might do just that."

That Glorfindel even runs everything by Erestor should be a wonder in its own. Really, it is too inconvenient, having to work together while Glorfindel wrestles with this terrible infatuation. Glorfindel is not even so sure anymore if he truly believes things ought to be coordinated so much with Erestor for the smooth running of the valley, or whether these things are just excuses to torture himself with each cruel, bittersweet encounter.

 

 

The downside to having a colleague so educated with languages is that one could face an opponent who never runs out of verbal projectiles. Glorfindel never worked much with Dwarves, but Erestor has cursed him often enough that he feels himself prepared to brawl with the Naugrim any time he feels cheated in a drinking game.

The worst part of it all, Glorfindel thinks, is that Erestor is like this with everybody. He cannot even claim being treated special - a thought which, Glorfindel was horrified to realise, points to some twisted, bordering masochistic form of jealousy.

"Ugh, please. Somebody just stop him, I cannot take it anymore."

Lindir is one of Erestor's frequent victims. Pretty much anyone with a senior position has been a victim of the chief counsellor, and more and more has Glorfindel sat with such Elves, helping them drink their woes away.

"Artists should never be pressured, but he never listens! Why do we even need new songs? We have more than enough. It would take a new minstrel three cycles to even learn all the songs in our records. I do not understand!"

Definitely, no one understands. Glorfindel is beginning to think that Erestor is just a mad, old dictator who likely served and trained under Fëanor's crazier sons. For some reason, however, Glorfindel does not say this out loud, even though his own mind is never quiet about his opinion on Erestor. Then again, perhaps it is just as well, given that said opinion plays on a wide landscape, ranging from murderous intent to grudging respect to burning lust to, on his better moods and more frequently in recent days, something disturbingly more tender that he does not yet care to name.

"I do not know how you do it, Glorfindel," continues Lindir as he nurses his mug of ale. "There is no one in my troupe who has not yet burst out in tears in front of Erestor. He really is a piece of work, but you seem to work fine with him everyday."

Glorfindel supposes that there lies the difference. While everyone else stays clear of Erestor, it is as though Glorfindel cannot help but keep himself in the other Elf's line of sight.

"If it makes you feel any better, he has effectively pushed me to drinking to excess, even though I have spent a literal lifetime abstaining," he tells Lindir, which makes the minstrel laugh.

"Indeed, I have seen you more frequently in these halls of late." Lindir sighs dramatically and lets his head fall on his arm against the table. "It is such a shame. Someone like him... he could have so many vying for his affections, but he makes it difficult, doesn't he, when one does not even know if he is even capable of such things?" Lindir laughs again. "Can you imagine it, Erestor as a lover?"

The awful thing is that Glorfindel can very well imagine it - has imagined it, in fact, many times on many nights, even during council in the presence of the High King, in the dining hall, through windows and across rooms, or really just about any time he sees Erestor. It is a dangerous flame that grows each and every day, and Glorfindel has long resigned himself to a day when it shall engulf him completely.

"Likely, one should just go to bed in full armour," is all he says, lifting his own mug until he can see the bottom.

"Which is such a sad state of affairs," giggles Lindir.

Glorfindel cannot help but agree.

 

 

And so really, it is the height of all foolishness to end up like this, drunk both in wine and the sight and scent of Erestor so close, his voice ringing still in Glorfindel's ears. But maybe it is also inevitable. Erestor provokes every strong emotion in him, some of which Glorfindel never even thought can exist, for certainly never in his old life had he ever encountered someone who vexes him so like Imladris' chief counsellor.

"Ngh." Erestor's voice is rough and even still has a touch of his usual irritation. "Bastard, that hurt. I swear to Namo, Glorfindel, if we are going to do this, the least you can do is--"

"Valar, shut up," hisses Glorfindel, pushing Erestor down further with his weight. "Shut up or I shall gag you with my belt, tie you to your desk and leave you like this for your assistants to see."

Like this, of course, is Erestor with his chest and shoulders bare with his robes twisted around his arms, bent over his own desk with Glorfindel behind him, pinning his hands to his back.

Glorfindel does not know what to blame or who to thank, or even whether he should be worried for himself, for certainly he has never heard of any Elf who found their mates the way he did Erestor. But he can no longer deny how much he wants to hold him, how much it hurt to be yelled at when all he ever wanted from Erestor is some semblance of affection - a look of kindness, words of love, some acknowledgement for what has been burning between them since Círdan introduced them at the Havens.

He knows he can no longer stop, not when they have gone this far. He now knows the taste of those lips, the sweetness of that smooth skin against his tongue, the sound of Erestor's voice when he is taken by surprise by a touch against a sensitive spot. Thankfully, Erestor does not ask him to stop. He is even quiet enough and relatively behaved, that Glorfindel is able to let him go long enough to turn him on his back, and have him lie more comfortably on his desk.

Glorfindel prepares him carefully with lips and tongue and fingers and the oil Erestor uses to light his lamps. Glorfindel takes his time, even when Erestor curses and later begs him to just get on with it, even when he can feel himself burning with the desire to take as he watches Erestor writhing around his fingers. He only relents when he has deemed Erestor ready, so that when he thrusts in, there is only relief, relief for them both, for although it has ever been Erestor's way to inflict pain whether consciously or not, Glorfindel has long resolved to answer his harshness with what tenderness he still has in his heart to give.

Then again, perhaps it is not all so benevolent. He is spiteful about how he knows Erestor must have noticed Glorfindel's regard, how Glorfindel is almost sure that the same regard is returned, only Erestor is too old and stubborn to change his ways for a love that comes late in a life he has already settled with. He wonders if it hurt Erestor just as much to deny what is surely fate, an inevitability for the both of them. But Erestor is far too good at pretending that he probably even convinced himself that he no longer needs this, living life long enough without someone like Glorfindel at his side. This is what angers Glorfindel most of all, so much so that every time he hits him right, every time Erestor arches up and moans Glorfindel's name as he endures a deep thrust, Glorfindel counts all these as points toward victory, ones he shall keep in his arsenal for when Erestor denies them again.

 

 

How they ended up in Glorfindel's bed is a hazy memory, and all Glorfindel prays for upon waking is that he hopes they at least were wearing clothes when they made their way down the halls.

The morning light feels harsh even through the narrow slits of Glorfindel's curtains. He turns to his side to avoid it, and promptly faces what has to be the single most heartbreaking sight of his life to date.

Erestor sleeping in his bed is about as cruel as things can get. Here is an illusion of peace, for many times Glorfindel had dreamt of moments exactly just like this one. Yet a dream it likely would still feel, one that will end not with Glorfindel waking, but with Erestor's, who would surely have an infinite number of things to say about what Glorfindel has done.

And so there Glorfindel lies, making the most out of yet a narrow window of opportunity, observing Erestor in the morning light. He truly is the most beautiful thing Glorfindel has ever seen, and he loves him deeply, this creature who sleeps with his eyes so deceptively soft and vividly green like young leaves upon the trees. Glorfindel can stare at him for years.

Alas, his window closes just as it always does. Erestor wakes slowly, his eyes clearing from the haze of sleep, and immediately Glorfindel feels his own heart hardening, preparing for the same rejection and denial as he has always endured. Sure enough, Erestor blinks up at the canopy of Glorfindel's bed, and must have recognised it not, for his brows immediately furrow in displeasure.

So beautiful and so painful - a true masterpiece, if the evil one were to ever claim such a thing.

"You... are a twisted child of Morgoth," Glorfindel hears himself say.

Dark eyebrows scrunch further down as Erestor turns to him, blinking back the last clouds of sleep. His voice is slightly hoarse when he says, "You have up to the count of three, Captain, to take that back before I cut off your tongue and feed it to the goats."

Glorfindel kisses him, hard and forceful and desperate, for this soon he really is not ready for anything Erestor cares to say.

"I wish you were kinder," he says after the end of that kiss, as he buries his face in Erestor's neck, taking what comfort he can get. "I wish Eru made our hearts more obedient, more concerned with self-preservation, and less inclined to love someone who hurts the way you do. Do you have any idea what it is like to look at you, to see the most beautiful thing I have ever known, only for you to hurl mud on my face every time I am at my barest, most vulnerable state?"

Glorfindel feels Erestor grow tense in his arms. He shuts his eyes and burrows himself deeper in Erestor's skin.

"Are you still drunk?" Erestor asks.

"Probably. Erestor..." Glorfindel forces himself up on his elbows, looking down at Erestor even as the other returns his look with a steady gaze. "I hope you do not expect me to apologise. I feel no remorse for what happened, and happily I shall do so again, once I have adequately recovered."

Erestor frowns up at him, and how badly must he have twisted Glorfindel in his own likeness, for all Glorfindel can think about in that moment is how Erestor is not glaring at him as harshly as he expected.

"I must have heard you wrong, as you seem to expect that I would let you do this again," says Erestor.

Glorfindel nearly barks out a mad laugh. As if they can still turn back!

He lifts himself on his knees so he could loom over Erestor and take his face between his hands. He delights in the slight widening of those eyes, at the hitch in Erestor's breath. He runs a thumb lightly across those red, slightly parted lips, watches them open further with little coaxing from Glorfindel. Blood runs hotly in his veins at the sight.

"Then you did hear me wrong, Lord Counsellor, because I did not - as I did not do so last night - ask for your permission."

Erestor, Glorfindel thinks, is a sack of problems all wrapped up in Eru's most beautiful song. He is sharp edges and hurtful words, and Glorfindel is not looking forward to what must surely be an eternity of heartbreaks with this Elf by his side. Yet, neither can he anymore think about a life without all this, of seeing Erestor with his hair behind him like a cloak of dread and darkness as he stalks his way down the halls, or with it unbound and spilled decadently upon Glorfindel's sheets.

And anyway, Glorfindel discovers that when kissed, Erestor turns limp and quiet, and when complimented, he averts his eyes and flushes an endearing pink. Erestor's skin, too, colours beautifully under passionate kisses, and the marks of teeth on his shoulders, his hips, his inner thighs, arouse the most sinful thoughts in Glorfindel's mind.

Whoever among the Valar ever thought to compose the music of love, Glorfindel might never know. For all he knew, they all must have sung it together and pulled it to their own wills, so twisted and convoluted does it seem, beautiful and horrible and wonderful, beyond everything Glorfindel has ever hoped to having, and beyond anything he thought he could endure.

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