Dust in Desert Winds by Raiyana

Prologue

They were summoned to the study on a balmy spring evening. Erestor – who had a good idea of the topic of the upcoming meeting – remained silent when he fell into step with Glorfindel, letting the warrior fill his ears with chatter as uncomplicated as the scent of the lilacs blooming overhead. It was one of admittedly few things he truly enjoyed about the Captain of their defences; his ability to keep a steady stream of conversation going without Erestor needing to think overmuch on his own contribution, Glorfindel simply chattering for the sake of chattering, not to ferret out information or deliver same in subtle ways.

“Sauron may have been driven from Mordor,” Elrond said quietly, “but we do not know how far his arm stretched from Barad-dûr… and Gondor is not as strong as it might have been.” Elrond looked at Erestor, then, a question unspoken hanging in the air between them.

The Chief-Counsellor straightened under his gaze, nodding almost imperceptibly.

With a pang of longing, he thought of the three books he had recently found for the Library, new acquisitions from the Library in Minas Tirith, written by a Faithful who had seen the rise of Sauron and the Fall of Númenór. It would be some time before he had time to read the accounts properly.

“I accept,” he said quietly. It was a role he had learned well in Lindon. “Shall I be going alone?”

“Wait, going where, what?” Glorfindel said, making Erestor almost smile at his earnest confusion.

“Spying, Glorfindel,” he murmured.

Elrond made a face. He never had liked the word. “Call it a diplomatic mission,” he said, “I, Elrond – the brother of the first King of Númenór – wish to learn of the realm of his descendants.”

“And you will send your chief librarian to compile a mountain of books and a museum’s worth of cultural paraphernalia, I take it?” Erestor quipped, trying not to laugh outright.

Elrond grinned lightly, clearly well-aware of Erestor’s hidden mirth. Glorfindel stared wordlessly between the two of them.

“Well, our sections concerning the East are woefully empty,” Elrond replied, turning to Glorfindel next. “Erestor is fully capable of this type of mission,” he began, “and although I cannot order you to go, I should consider it a great favour if you would accompany him – just in case.”

“I’ll need someone to carry the books, at least,” Erestor said, feigning nonchalance.

“But… you?” Glorfindel protested, “A spy?”

 “Who do you think gathered all the intelligence Gil-Galad so skilfully used to keep Lindon as safe as possible?” Erestor wondered, frowning at him.

Glorfindel blushed.

“But you’re… well…” he trailed off, the glow in his cheeks turning brighter.

Erestor mastered the impulse to pinch one of them. Glorfindel was uncomplicated – there was very little guile in him, if any – and Erestor quite liked that; Glorfindel’s smalltalk was a soothing babble to the mind, allowing him to think freely on other matters while seeming engrossed in the warrior’s chatter. Erestor had used that babble of inconsequential things before, in Lindon, to cover up his own listening ears, his true focus on far weightier matters than the cherry-blossoms or whatever else Glorfindel was nattering on about – being perceived busy with one person allowed him to scrupulously listen in on the conversations of others, gathering small morsels of knowledge that the High King needed to hear.

“I am a highly skilled intelligence operative,” he said, shrugging off his bruised pride. “Capable of gathering and arraying information, spotting patterns and formulating counter-attack plans.” Studying the glow in those cheeks – had Glorfindel truly never suspected he was more than the aide he had portrayed? – Erestor added pointedly, “After all… that was my purpose in the court of Lindon.”

Glorfindel had no reply to that, it seemed, though a new kind of respect had appeared in his gaze; unsettlingly unfamiliar but also warming to the core in a way that was almost more unsetting altogether.

Erestor did not quite like the feeling.

“Then it is arranged,” Elrond said. “You shall be well provided for.”

Erestor nodded acceptance at Elrond; his mind was already drawing lines of travel along the maps he still kept in his study. “We shall journey east a bit,” he mused, “then turn south skirting the foothills of the Hithaeglir.”

“You will need to choose a new horse,” Elrond pointed out, his voice too gentle to make the reminder truly sting, “Glorfindel has Asfaloth, but your mount was slain in the war, Erestor.”

Erestor nodded tightly, the loss of his brave companion still raw.

“How long will the journey be?” Glorfindel asked, for once sensing that a topic was not going to be discussed further – a pleasant change from councils in Lindon where Erestor had often prayed for patience to deal with his brash demands for knowledge better left alone.

“If we take sail from Pelargir, we should land at Umbar during the most pleasant time of year – no Habagat to curl your hair, Lord Glorfindel,” Erestor teased, feeling an odd sense of sorrow when Glorfindel’s eyes once more revealed his familiar light contempt.