The Threads We Weave by Ulan

Chapter 1

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He sat on one of the tables to the side, watching the crowd as he always tended to do in this sort of parties. He always managed to make solitude look like an easy, comfortable thing. Glorfindel admired that so much about him—the picture he made with his shoulders and back relaxed against his chair, his fingers playing with the stem of the wine flute he had on the table before him, legs probably crossed below the tablecloth. He could stay that way for the entire evening and somehow be the most interesting person in that crowd of attendees.

“If you sigh one more time, I swear, Glorfindel…”

Glorfindel could feel Ecthelion’s exasperation even before he turned back to him. The Lord of the Fountain—because of course he somehow built that again, and so he was as much Lord of the Fountain in Valinor as he was in Gondolin ages ago—sat beside Glorfindel, having accompanied him that evening.

“It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” Ecthelion asked, pausing as though he was counting the seasons.

“Years, yes,” answered Glorfindel. He knew exactly how long, but what did that matter? It had simply been long—too long, and with the remembrance, there again was that old, familiar ache.

Ecthelion seemed to sense this. He had always been good at reading people, which was quite useful in and outside of court. As a friend, it made him invaluable, and few friends had been truer to Glorfindel. It was why it was easy enough to rekindle the old friendship even after lifetimes apart, and even now, there was much that Glorfindel owed to Ecthelion.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Glorfindel took a deep breath. “Ecthelion, what if he—”

“My friend,” said Ecthelion, preempting the worry that always seemed to find Glorfindel every time he came in proximity to the Elf seated on the other table. “Indeed, he probably will. From what I have heard you tell of him, I do not suppose this will be an easy conversation. It was he who thought separating was a good idea, no?”

Glorfindel closed his eyes and leaned his head on steepled hands. “Aye, and so for all intents and purposes, he should be the one to approach, if you listen to what Egalmoth says.”

“Egalmoth is proud, and so is your conquest. Placed in a similar situation, those two will never move, so thank all that is holy that it is not Egalmoth I am now advising.” Ecthelion laid a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. “You, instead, are less proud and more keen on the prize. You have always been the honest one of all of us. I also worry, Glorfindel, at your unhappiness. Has it not been long enough? Did you not say you think you have given him enough time?”

So many seasons apart… they said that such things helped, that even long-time spouses would spend years apart and find that the distance helped rekindle things that became easy and stagnant over the centuries. But theirs was a different situation; they had no promise of reunion.

Glorfindel glanced at the other Elf, seated still where they last saw him. He had gone on to watch the dancing, ever the picture of the calm observer. His face betrayed nothing.

Glorfindel felt the old ache just looking at him.

“What if in that time, all he gained was the conviction that he did the right thing?”

“Then the sooner you convince him otherwise, the less chances that thought shall have to take root.” Ecthelion was the rock that helped steady Glorfindel amidst the waves of doubt. His hand tightened around Glorfindel’s shoulder. “And in the event that indeed all is for naught, then, my friend, just return to us, and we shall drink with you and be with you as you drown out your sorrow.” Ecthelion laughed at the look he received and held up a placating hand. “You will not be alone regardless, is what I am trying to say.”

Glorfindel sighed. Later, in a more quiet voice: “I wish he could meet you—all of you.”

“He would be so lucky,” said Ecthelion, his own eyes moving to the other Elf in the distance. His gaze was thoughtful, but it narrowed so it even looked appraising. “I can see why you would be attracted to such an Elf, and listening to your stories, I can also understand how a sap like you would desire one such as he. But the fellow has also caused quite a bit of trouble already for my household. If he ever becomes open to the idea, tell him he has many things to make up for. At the very least, I expect the best, most expensive bottle of wine he can find.”

“We do not even know if—” Glorfindel cut that thought, refusing to dwell on the possibility. He amended with, “He would not like that.”

“I am not the one working to be liked by him.” Ecthelion did have a hard way to him, the part of him most people saw before he grew to care for them. He stared nonchalantly at his glass, before looking back and grinning at Glorfindel. “Meeting the family should never be easy anyway.”

At that, Glorfindel’s lips finally stretched into a smile. “You do know you are not actually my real brother?”

“I am not?” Ecthelion’s water-blue eyes widened in mock surprise, and he slammed his fist on the table. “Then who are you, who is that bastard Egalmoth, and why are you both living in my house?”

Glorfindel laughed, heart substantially lighter. Somehow that gave him courage, let him release some of the nerves and the tension when his constant hope to see the other finally proved true this time around, after years of him missing events that were supposed to call all Elves within and around Tirion.

Glorfindel eventually stood and made his way to that table, though of course not without Ecthelion's encouraging slap on his back. Despite the courage he was bestowed upon his decision to go, however, trepidation still did brew beneath the surface. It was always so in times of war and at the beginning of every battle, and it was just so as well whenever Glorfindel approached this particular Elf.

“Erestor,” he said in greeting, once he had stopped a few steps before the other’s table.

The old chief counsellor seemed to turn his head so slowly to Glorfindel. So much of him though remained the same—those eyes, those elegant mannerisms with his fingers that never did fail to draw Glorfindel in. They were so familiar even after all this time that something within Glorfindel clenched and tightened at the sight.

“Glorfindel," came the return greeting. Thank the Valar, at least, that the other went for his name instead of titles that would only serve to distance the both of them. “Good evening.”

But already, a standstill. The music played around them and the party went on, and they were off to the side enough so that they were not really pulling any attention. For all intents and purposes, they were two Elves who perhaps knew one another in a former life, which happened enough to all of them in Valinor that hardly anyone blinked at such meetings anymore.

Not one to be deterred by the unencouragingly neutral air, Glorfindel pushed on. "Do you mind if I sit?"

It was only years of familiarity that had him recognising the surprise on Erestor’s face. He stared up at Glorfindel longer than he would normally have had, and those green eyes flitted once to the side as though looking for escape.

But Glorfindel waited, and was eventually rewarded.

"Go ahead," Erestor said.

They sat together in silence for a while, Erestor hardly moving from how he was sitting from earlier, Glorfindel turned to him, his hands neatly folded on the table between them.

The music around them was a light, lilting tune, and for a moment Glorfindel wondered if it was possible that music could be composed to be forgettable, to allow for generic dances and friendly conversation. He found he still preferred the music they used to have in Imladris, when Lindir led the minstrels and somehow the music always pulled at heartstrings and reflected the mood of the evening.

He turned his attention away from the musicians and carefully back to his companion.

"How are you, Erestor?"

Erestor, who had thus far been silently studying the patterns on the tablecloth, let his eyes draw up to Glorfindel. "Well enough," he said. He did not look comfortable, and it was a while before he followed this up. "You?"

It was a simple enough question—even a natural one, given the one Glorfindel asked. But perhaps their conversation would expectedly be stilted this evening, and simple questions such as this would unearth so many weighted memories.

Even after some time, Glorfindel found he still could not adequately answer. "I... honestly do not know."

There was a pause again, from Erestor this time. This time it was Glorfindel whose eyes were on the tablecloth—a light gold with delicate patterns, one that would have fetched a good price in Gondor or Harad—but he felt Erestor's eyes on him.

"You look all right," Erestor volunteered.

"Do I?"

Erestor gave an easy shrug, just a slight tilt of his head, one shoulder raising. "Sure."

Silence, again. It was not unlike their old chess games, shared one, maybe two lifetimes ago. That was back when things were uncertain yet between them. Somehow, however, they found themselves together every evening in front of the fire, two heads bowed on either side of their makeshift battlefield, each calculating what the other was thinking—and feeling.

Erestor's chair screeched against the floor as he moved to stand.

"I am going to get a drink."

Glorfindel felt his chest tighten again. No, not yet, something in him wanted to say. But already Erestor was stepping away, and Glorfindel despaired at how this could be so difficult—at how much courage it took for him to come and how easily Erestor still could leave.

Glorfindel started when Erestor suddenly turned, the look on his face hesitant. Those eyes flitted again to the side, before returning to Glorfindel. "Should I... get something for you as well?"

The relief came so suddenly that Glorfindel genuinely felt winded.

"Wine, please," he almost stammered, but the words came out miraculously coherent despite the numbness in his tongue. Erestor nodded and made for the long table in front of the room, leaving Glorfindel.

Glorfindel released the built-up tension in a great breath. From the corner of his eyes, he caught Ecthelion worriedly watching him. The dark-haired lord brightened upon meeting Glorfindel's eyes, his hand even lifting in a gesture that seemed to ask, ‘What is happening?’ Glorfindel could only shrug helplessly at him, for he himself did not know.

He nearly jumped at the glass that was all but slammed on the table in front of him, and the deep voice that came from over his shoulder. "Here."

Glorfindel straightened at the sudden warmth that covered his back but disappeared far too quickly. Erestor’s layered robes—he always had a fondness for them—shuffled as he moved around the table and back to his seat. Glorfindel followed him with careful eyes before he turned his attention to the proffered drink.

He took the wine flute before him and brought it to his nose, noting the promising aroma of fruit and suggestions of sweetness that Glorfindel liked in his wines. He tried a sip, not at all surprised that he liked the flavour, for Erestor always did pick out the best wines for Glorfindel ever since he got a picture of the types of things the other liked. Glorfindel supposed that a few years could not be long enough for one's long-time lover—ex-lover, his stupid mind supplied—to forget such details.

At the gesture though, something dangerously like hope fluttered within Glorfindel, but he valiantly squashed it down before it hurt him even more. It was bad enough that he was seated in this table in the first place; he did not need any more openings for Erestor to stick his metaphorical dagger in when Glorfindel least expected it.

"Thank you," he said instead as they both settled down again.

"You are here with Lord Ecthelion?" asked Erestor, his eyes in the direction of where Glorfindel knew his old friend was seated.

"Yes."

"I hear you live with him now."

"Yes—him and Egalmoth, who came by and stayed when he learned that I would be living there. I... have not settled on where to go yet, and it is a good dwelling place for now. Ecthelion’s house is large and he does not seem to mind having us there."

It was the longest thing Glorfindel had said to Erestor for much too long a time.

"Does he not now," was Erestor’s cryptic comment. His eyes turned back down on his own wine glass, his fingers rubbing at the stem. "You and he are just housemates?"

Glorfindel looked up at him. "Yes, of course.”

"There are rumours again.”

“Yes?” Glorfindel sighed, for this was not unfamiliar territory. "And I told you they were only that—rumours. There was no truth to them then and no truth to them now."

That people had thought he and Ecthelion were close before in Gondolin was nothing new. It never was a problem exactly with Erestor, only the suggestion scratched at old scars—different people, different names. They had fought before over such things not only once or twice, for Erestor was a jealous lover, especially in the first few years, and Glorfindel’s work kept him away from Imladris too long and too often.

It was a while before Glorfindel remembered he needed not be so defensive over his choice of company anymore. Even if, in his pettiness, he made it so as though the rumours could be true, technically, he could no longer be accused of betraying a lover.

"Will it bother you?" he ventured to ask.

Erestor shrugged. "The idea will take some getting used to, but it is no longer my business, is it?"

Often, Glorfindel wished he would be more honest, though he knew this was almost already a futile wish. Back in the sweet days when things were easier, Glorfindel would fondly, exasperatedly but still with much honest affection, describe Erestor as being like poetry—elegantly beautiful, deceptively neat and concise, but loaded with so much between the lines. It was often so that Glorfindel had to read him, and certainly early in their relationship, he would stumble on things he did not even know one could stumble upon.

Later he would understand that Erestor carried with him the weight of his experiences. Unlike Glorfindel who was cleansed of his pains and regrets upon his death and was returned to Middle-Earth as though he was young again, Erestor wore the mistakes of his long life as a constant reminder of things he ought to be careful with. But he disliked speaking of them, much like he seldom spoke of his desires, too used to a hard life to be demanding or to act spoiled, even with a lover.

"How are you really, Erestor?" Glorfindel asked, keeping his voice low and unassuming, so the other would not be so on guard.

It took a while for Erestor to speak. "It feels strange, talking to you."

"Strange how?"

Erestor sighed. "I do not know yet."

Even for a lover, it could take years to unravel him. Even now, Glorfindel thought perhaps that was what he was doing still.

"I..." he began to say, knowing fully well this was not his first gamble for the evening, and likely would not be his last. "I have missed you, Erestor."

It was a consolation that Erestor at least looked at him when he said this. The former chief counsellor was careful about it though, unmoving save for his eyes, which flitted to Glorfindel and regarded him with that same sharp, calculating gaze. Glorfindel endured it like he did the others many times before it, for sometimes it was only in such things that one could get through to Erestor.

He said consolation though, for after that they did not speak. They sipped their wine and watched the people around them. The party was large enough for one to be inconspicuous if one wanted to, but once or twice Glorfindel thought he saw Ecthelion distracting an old friend who might have made his way to their table.

“Would you like to take a walk?”

The offer came unexpectedly, but it was not unwanted. Glorfindel did his best to hide his surprise and exultation at the invitation as he turned to Erestor, who waited for him with his own brand of neutrality.

Glorfindel nodded.

They rose from the table, conveniently placed near one of the curtained doorways so that it was simple enough for them to duck through it and leave the bright, extravagant dome of the High King’s ballroom.

They walked slowly together along the limestone pathway, the garden lamps lighting their way and revealing the path's varied colours of pale yellow and lightened rust-gold. Elbereth's stars became more visible the farther out they went, and the cool, pleasant winds of Manwë blessed the evening.

“Finarfin holds such lavish parties,” Erestor said, breaking the silence. “I believe Lady Galadriel would be embarrassed, but then there has always been a thick hide on that one. One can never tell.”

Glorfindel’s lips twitched at the words. Erestor’s jokes at the expense of royals never failed to make Glorfindel laugh before. For the longest time, it was their shared secret, exchanged during events as far as back as Gil-galad’s days.

“The abundance of Aman does pose a challenge,” offered Glorfindel. “After all, what would it take to impress people who have grown used to plenty?”

Erestor hummed his agreement. “There is that. Far be it for me to complain of peace and plenty. We all of us have had our share of difficulties and strife, and it has been a long life. It will be a while before even I tire of it.”

Glorfindel nodded, agreeing, but unable to find more to say. Once, they passed another pair of Elves walking in the gardens and deep in their own conversation, but for the most part it seemed most people chose to stay at the ballroom. It was a festive enough party after all, and in those days, with lands so wide and free to take, it was not often that friends from afar could come together and meet. Events such as this were a boon, and were used for the most part for the purpose they sought to serve.

They eventually sat on one of the stone benches near the edge of the garden. Parts of the High King’s palace were built on a promontory, and so in many places there was a view of the Sea. There where they were seated, too, the winds were strong and crisp. For all the disquiet of the evening, the fear, uncertainty and that the bone-deep longing for a thing long missing from his arms, his bedside, in front of the fireplace on evenings when Glorfindel just wanted to rest and be quiet—for all of those, for a moment, here, Glorfindel felt them all fade.

"Why do you still come to me, Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel opened his eyes, which had drifted closed to rest in the silence. Temporary though it all was, it still remained that the presence beside him was who he wanted it to be.

For a long time, for years, Glorfindel could not even find him. He could not even remember anymore how it was that Erestor convinced him to end things. They were newly landed in Valinor, scrambling to decide on what life they wanted to live. But Glorfindel thought it should have been a given that they would share that life together, and so it had come as a shock when Erestor said he was letting go.

The sea-winds blew cold air on Glorfindel's face as he told Erestor, “I still do not understand why.”

In the first year, Glorfindel sent him letters. They never met, though soon enough after their parting Glorfindel begged Erestor if they could; always, however, Erestor would decline. He did answer the first few letters though, saying that there were things he had to take care of, but he did not know how long they would take. He could not ask Glorfindel to wait. He also encouraged Glorfindel to see for himself what he might truly want. It was the first time that he would be released from a position of service, one that did not have him bound to a lord or a king. Valinor was supposed to be a rebirth for all, be it by release from Mandos or by sailing, both of which Glorfindel had even done.

That was when Glorfindel realised that Aman meant different things to different Elves. The thought that things could be shed in a land like this was something Glorfindel only learned much later, when he met old friends who had sailed sooner than they had, and had known the healing that happened in Aman.

Of the two of them, Erestor had always been the one with the heavier load he carried. To be fair, he carried it with much grace, and it was not as if old memories bothered him every day. He served his kings adequately, took care of Elrond’s family to the best of his ability and capacity to love, and he was a true friend to Glorfindel even before they came together. But those memories did come, Glorfindel supposed, especially at the end of one’s life in Middle-Earth; in the later days, Erestor had taken to standing in balconies of the tallest spires of Minas Tirith, facing the Sea.

“Where did you go?” he asked Erestor now.

“Lórien,” Erestor said, “and then, Taniquetil—I realised that eventually, one has to admit that spiteful words towards the Valar do not hide the blood on one’s hands. No one compels us to do the things we do, no matter what words or curses are used against us, and so in the end, our actions are our own. I have… lived with the admission of the things that I have done, and I have made my peace with the Valar long ago. After some time here, I found I needed to know if that peace has only ever been one-sided.”

“Has it?”

Erestor shook his head. “Understand—I did not climb it to its peak. I did not meet them, for how could I? But while I was there, I understood that... no, it has not been one-sided for a long time.”

There was a peace to Erestor when he said this that lightened Glorfindel’s heart. Despite everything, Erestor’s happiness had ever been his most important desire. “That is good, Erestor,” he said sincerely.

“And then—” Erestor took a breath “—Alqualondë, though I could not enter—not yet. Perhaps in time—or perhaps never.” He grew quiet for some time, but then also added, “And my old lords, I tried to find them. They are not yet here.”

“Maedhros?”

“And Lord Maglor. Even now I do not know what became of him. I know Elrond is also searching.”

Such old, heavy stories, one Glorfindel learned long ago brought Elrond and Erestor together. But those days were bittersweet—Elrond being one of two people who were loved but also held in what was, by definition, captivity of children, and Erestor, the faithful steward, who for good or for ill pledged his loyalty to lords held in thrall by a wretched oath.

“Nevertheless, Erestor, you have made much progress.”

Erestor shook his head. “I do not know if I would call it progress. I do not think I am much farther than where I began. It is more like shedding, lightening the load before one could forge ahead.”

“Is that why you left me, too?”

Erestor did not seem to expect the question. His eyebrows knitted for a moment, and his expression was a guarded one when he turned to look at Glorfindel. “I did not leave you, Glorfindel,” he said, body turning slowly to face the other. “I let you go.”

Glorfindel looked sadly at him. “What is the difference?”

Erestor frowned at these words. “I was your companion in Middle-Earth, and a poor one at that. I know this. We did not have many years to us—of friendship, perhaps, but we stumbled a lot as lovers. We were not wed—"

“Marriage is not the only means by which we can be secure,” said Glorfindel, cutting the other off. “I thought you knew that. Had I known you felt this way, I would have married you long ago.”

Again, it was not something that Erestor seemed to be expecting. He stared wide-eyed at Glorfindel. “You would?”

“I would,” pressed Glorfindel. “Why does that surprise you?”

Erestor looked at him in shocked silence, and all Glorfindel could think about was how unfair it was that even in the face of what was clearly two people having different understandings of where they were, his head was still filled with the idea that Erestor looked beautiful in starlight, moonlight, and faint garden lights. His hair blew about him in time with the crashing of distant waves, and in the evenings, Glorfindel always thought that Erestor’s eyes were vividly bright.

“We had a good life,” he went on to say, his chest squeezing once again for all that they lost. “You even agreed to live with me, and I was so happy when you finally did.”

Theirs had never been the stuff of love stories. There was never certainty, no recognition at first meeting, none of those things that they read in books about how fated lovers met and just knew. Instead, their union was centuries in the making, a product of years of strife, of shared struggles and shared love for lords with whom they walked, and perhaps also shared principles that somehow had the both of them pledging their allegiance to the same rulers every time. And so, with a love story so ordinary, when they did come together, it was a union filled with doubts, arguments, and for a long time it felt like two large heads insisting on the same space. Erestor was a jealous lover and Glorfindel had many friends; Glorfindel could not help being over-protective, but Erestor seemed to think loyalties and his work trumped all self-preservation. Erestor worked long hours and was usually late to bed; Glorfindel's work had him abroad and away from Imladris for long periods of time.

But then there were also good times—many of them even, so many, that in the period that they were apart here in Aman, Glorfindel could find a moment to miss for every hour of his days. He would remember how good it felt to lay his head on Erestor's lap, to have those fingers carding through his hair as they talked about matters of no import, but could fill the rest of the afternoon until twilight found them. He would remember how, when they did get moments when they could share dinner together and in private, their conversations would bleed on to midnight, just the two of them sitting on their small dining table, laughing and talking. He remembered Erestor’s laughing face when Elrohir pulled him beneath the waters of the Bruinen, or when he held Arwen in the days when she confessed to them, distraught, that she had fallen in love with Estel. He remembered kissing Erestor in the gardens of their yard as they danced sweetly under the moonlight.

They built those days, somehow, two people finding their middle-ground in a quaint house just outside the noisy bustle of Imladris. That was in the later days, so close to that last war, when they all found pockets of happiness in the watchful silence.

“We had that house for a few years before the wars began again," said Erestor. "With the Ring secretly on its way to Mordor, you were ever abroad again, hardly home. It is always difficult, too, you at times of wars, and perhaps I as well, with the worries and weariness of those days, had not been a pleasant companion.” Erestor was returning to old memories, too, recounting their final years. “When the battle was finally won, we found ourselves swept into the coming of yet a new age. We stayed in Gondor with Arwen and Estel and left Imladris to fade. We had a few bittersweet years—the city had cracks hidden in the plaster, and we know golden ages only last for very long. Estel dies; Arwen fades. The world fades—albeit slowly, but it does—and the gulls were ever loud in Gondor.”

Glorfindel blinked back the sorrow brought by the imagery of Erestor’s words. Indeed, those days were bittersweet, and felt so even as they treaded those days. They were still happy days for the most part, but Glorfindel could see even then that Erestor was not the attentive, doting uncle to Eldarion as he had been to Elladan and Elrohir. He did his best, but Erestor was already exhausted and had been for a long time, his heart set to sailing if not for his loyalty to the children of Elrond.

Glorfindel sighed, his eyes on the stars ahead of them. “You mean to say that all things fade, and perhaps you imply that you expect the same with me. We may be taught that the entire world indeed is fading, even Aman, but is it not also said that there within us is that imperishable light? What brews and grows and thrives within us may yet thrive when all other things are dying. At least, that is what I am learning by loving you.”

Erestor’s head lowered at these words, and even without looking, Glorfindel could imagine that his restless fingers were fiddling with one another on his lap. “Are you suggesting that love could be a fruit of the Flame Imperishable, Glorfindel? How can you claim that when we hardly know it, having been together only for a little while? To test this—”

Glorfindel turned to him. “Do you think that just because you were not mine, that I did not love you? If I told you now that I loved you as far back as the Last Alliance, would you think then that this love was tested enough?” Again, that look of surprise, to which Glorfindel only shook his head. “It could not be for us then, I know. They were hard times, and I was bound to my duties, and we even lived apart. Perhaps I was unsure, and yes, I tarried when perhaps I should not have. I loved you when perhaps I did not want to think of love, but I loved you enough for you to be the first one I searched for at the end of every day, there in the fields at Dagorlad. After that, I loved you in silence because the timing was still not right, and so I loved you even as you and many others yelled at me for the loss of Celebrían. Did you not wonder why it took me so long to forgive you for it even though you apologised and I have forgiven all the others? It was because it was you, and it hurt to feel as though you blamed me for it all—”

“I did not blame you for that, Glorfindel. We were all grieving, and I will always be sorry for letting it out on you, for I could see even then that you beat yourself the hardest.”

Glorfindel looked away, shook his head. He had to take a moment, too, to think of sweet Celebrían and remind himself that she was here in Aman, taken care of and reunited with her husband.

"I just wanted you to know,” Glorfindel went on to say, “that for what it is worth, what I told you before remains the same. I do not think it is right that we separated as we did, but you seemed adamant, and I did not want to keep you bound when you no longer wished to. But do not for a moment think that I do not still wish for this, that you could not have asked me to wait. I waited for you regardless. If there were things that you needed done, then do them, but do not deter me when I say I still wish for a life with you. You were not some lover for a pocket of time, one that would just tide me over the ending of an age.”

He had not looked at Erestor for a while, so he did not know what expression the other had. He did, however, take one of Erestor’s hands that was resting on his lap; he wrapped it up in his, pulled it to his own lap and folded it between his hands, like some precious thing.

“When you are done, do not hesitate to return. Even when you think much time has passed and the skies have changed and you are convinced, surely, that love has faded... even then, come to me. I have known you now for much of my life and I have loved you already for a good part of it, whether or not you were there to receive it.” Finally, he met Erestor’s eyes, which seemed to shine even more brightly in the dim light. Glorfindel squeezed his hand. "That is what I wanted to say to you this evening."

Soon, there was nothing more to say. They sat together for some time, but eventually Glorfindel rose, meaning to give Erestor his farewells for the evening. But Erestor stood, too, and pulled at Glorfindel’s hand. In the next moment, Glorfindel had a familiar warmth in his embrace, and he was being kissed in a way that seemed almost unrecognisable, so long had it been.

But somehow, eventually, the situation sank in, and old habits returned to the fore. Erestor's hands came around Glorfindel's head and framed it as they kissed, and Glorfindel’s arms wrapped around a tightly clothed waist. His body’s response was immediate, the heat rising as he touched old dips and curves, firm lines and soft things underneath silken robes. Their kiss did not remain chaste for long, if it had been that at all, for always Glorfindel found madness in Erestor’s mouth, the sweetness of it magnified by the wine and the years of drought and so much longing.

“I was blind,” Erestor whispered against his lips, after the frenzy. Those hands tightened on his face, clutched at his hair. “I have been unfair to you. I am so, so sorry, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel held him tight. He found he could not deny the words, and despite everything that he said, at the conclusion and Erestor's admission, he found he did resent it a little that Erestor missed so many things. But such was the way perhaps with people who were haunted by worries, by guilt and old regrets. And so Glorfindel kept silent, accepting the apology and letting it coat him instead like a balm. He buried his face at the crook of Erestor’s neck and breathed deeply, desperately, as though it was a cleansing inhale after running through smoke. Old times came back—times when Erestor did exactly this, held Glorfindel when he was fresh from battle, fresh from war, when always, always he was the one Glorfindel looked for—the only real definition of coming home.

Erestor invited Glorfindel back to his house nearby. In the past year or so, he had moved to Tirion, but whether he would stay he did not yet know. But after a short ride, he pulled Glorfindel to a house that did not look very different from its neighbours. On the inside it also looked somewhat plain, if filled with a variety of books that was only to be expected of Erestor.

They did not even have the time to light any more candles. The house was lit by the embers glowing faintly in the fireplace, but somehow that was enough for them to see where they were going and enough of one another to be able to start pulling at ties and clothes and hairclips. Where they could not see, they found their way through fumbling and sheer determination.

Surprisingly, it was Erestor who hit his foot on something, making him cry out and then curse loudly. That somehow had Glorfindel laughing, because there was that legendary temper that mothers in Imladris used to scare their children. He missed it so, for not even Egalmoth had that brand of irreverence coupled with a caustic vocabulary. Glorfindel grabbed at the silhouette of Erestor’s head and pulled him in for another kiss, pulling him flush against Glorfindel and angled perfectly for kisses, which distracted Erestor enough to shut him up.

Erestor led them up the stairs to where a single bedroom was. Here, they had to stop long enough for Erestor to light a candle, and that was how Glorfindel saw that Erestor had just a wide enough bed, simple linen, books again and clothes not quite on the floor but definitely not just in the closet or the hamper. Erestor was in no mood for judgment, however, and he pulled Glorfindel once again before he could say anything.

It was quick business after that. They did not do it often this way, but of course there had been times, moments especially when Glorfindel felt vulnerable and needed the reassurance, that he wished for Erestor’s arms around himself, that intense, passionate heat filling him. Erestor prepared him and took him swiftly, his hands a firm grip around Glorfindel's wrists, nearly crushing him on the bed where he had Glorfindel lying on his front. It hurt, too, for Glorfindel had not been taken thusly since the last time Erestor did so, because of course there had been no one else, never again since Erestor, not even when they both declared it all over.

All the same, it was glorious when Erestor came, releasing his hot seed and claiming Glorfindel in a way Glorfindel had only dreamed about, albeit for so long and so viciously that the culmination—the reality—now brought that tell-tale pinprick of tears welling in his eyes.

It was not over though, and his growl was the only warning before he turned abruptly, pulling Erestor out of him and slamming him on his back against the pillows. Erestor’s cry was one of surprise only until Glorfindel had an oiled finger between his legs, and after that, all cries were of pleasure and distress. His cock was sensitive but half-hard when Glorfindel breached him with his yet unfulfilled one, and it was no less brutal, no less desperate. Erestor arched up to Glorfindel and had his fingernails buried on the other’s broad back, his legs wrapping around the other’s back and thighs, clenching around him and pulling him even deeper in a confused mix of pain and lust. He cried beautifully when Glorfindel tangled his fingers in that fall of dark hair, pulled that head back to expose Erestor’s neck for devouring, as Glorfindel fucked years and years of frustrated longing out on him.

Glorfindel could not count how many times they had one another that night, their arousal coming in turns, each riding out that relentless ebb and flow. They must have filled that room with the scent of their desire, for it was as though every breath they took only had them grabbing at the other, sometimes fiercely, sometimes slowly and more desperately. Things were said, mostly apologies, some reassurances and some words of love, and some just delirious declarations of how good the other felt, how they had wanted this, and how much they never wanted it to end.

When they finally did stop, the candle had long burnt out, but it did not matter because they faced the window where Arien’s rising light was slowly peeking from the slit in the curtains. It filled their room with hints of warm light, and lying as they were with Erestor’s back to Glorfindel’s chest, curled together in a tight, messy ball, it was the best that Glorfindel had felt in a long time.

"What do you want to do now?" Erestor asked in the silence.

Glorfindel closed his eyes, buried his nose on Erestor’s sweaty nape. He thought he heard the chirping of early birds outside.

“My friends say you have a bit to make up for.”

Some shifting, and then Erestor’s head turned to look at Glorfindel over his shoulder. “A bit?”

“A lot.”

There was silence again for some time. Glorfindel told Ecthelion that Erestor would not like being in debt to anyone, but somehow the anger, or even annoyance, did not come as immediately as he had expected it. In fact, it did not come at all.

“What should I do?” Erestor asked this time, to Glorfindel’s surprise.

Perhaps a house, was Glorfindel’s first thought when his mind finally calmed down, but a house with clearer expectations. This one was definitely too small, not even big enough for Erestor, and with Glorfindel added in it likely would just burst. Anyway, Glorfindel thought it best that they pick their house together this time; the last time Glorfindel did so himself, Erestor had thought he was merely moving into Glorfindel’s space, which the silly creature apparently thought was not a permanent enough thing.

For now, however, perhaps just this—a small step. "Will you let me stay over?"

Erestor turned fully this time, rolling in the circle of Glorfindel’s arms. Their limbs were heavy as they moved, but it was warm where they were, and Erestor’s lips were swollen and extra soft when they pressed against Glorfindel’s for a kiss. "Please do."

Glorfindel smiled. "Then, let us start with that."

---

Chapter End Notes

I often write them as fated, but in this case I love how the idea was revealed that they did not have that certainty. They were maybe two councillors in Elrond's circle who happened to fall in love. It's nice to write about "ordinary love" (nothing about which is at all ordinary) every once in a while.

Aah, and my boy Ecthelion (and Egalmoth). Nowadays, I'll write them in as often as the stories would let me.