Even Quicker Than Doubt by Keiliss

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Chapter 13/25

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Chapter 13 - The faces of Friendship

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After the interminable socializing had finally come to an end, and after a light dinner with Gil-galad, Glorfindel had gone to the stables to check on his horse. He knew the grooms were amused by his concern at what was no more than a light strain, but he had always loved horses and already had a strong rapport with Carod. The walk also gave him the opportunity to mull over the day’s events.

The reception had proven surprisingly straightforward. Following Gil’s suggestions to the letter, he had settled in a chair as far from the main focus of attention – Elros and Gil-galad – as he could find, sipped his wine and kept his smiling responses to all overtures short. Elros came over and spent a few minutes with him and on several occasions Gil caught his eye, winked and raised his wine goblet in salute, but otherwise he was left more or less to himself, present yet uninvolved. Which more or less described his second life up till then, he thought wryly.

He was returning to one of the few certainties in this new life, the warmth of Gil-galad’s welcome, when he saw movement, a more solid darkness within the shadows next to one of the small trees that grew in bright containers along the terrace .The area of deeper shadow turned out to be Erestor, rendered unobtrusive by virtue of black hair and dark clothing, who was leaning lightly against the colourfully painted pot and staring off into the distance, apparently lost in thought.

Glorfindel paused. He could walk on, pretending not to notice, or he could do something which he found painfully difficult - stop and indulge in small talk for a few minutes. The choice was taken from him when Erestor turned his head slightly and smiled in greeting. Glorfindel forced down the habitual nervous flutter and went over to join him.

“Enjoying the night?” he asked, cringing at the banality of the question. He went to stand on the opposite side of the tree, keeping it between them almost by way of a boundary.

Erestor’s mouth twitched slightly, possibly not with mirth. “It seemed the right time to be considering my future,” he replied cryptically in his quietly mellow voice.

Glorfindel shot him am inquiring glance, but was not invited to pursue the subject. Making a noncommittal sound, he leaned against his side of the container and shared the view of the shadowed garden and the deeper darkness beyond that was the sea. They stood thus for a time, separated by the small tree, experiencing an unexpectedly comfortable silence.

“Was it a successful evening?” Erestor asked, breaking the stillness after a while. “We were discussing the guest list over dinner. Quite an interesting combination.”

“I don’t think anyone besides the King was what you might call comfortable,” Glorfindel admitted with a quick smile. “But everything seemed to go as planned. It’s strange though, the Men seemed barely to know one another.” His voice reflected his dubiousness at the idea, but Erestor caught the implied question and shook his head.

“They seldom mingle. They form little groups and band together against the world. Though considering the violent times we’ve just lived through it’s no wonder they avoid strangers,” he added, then paused, his face thoughtful as he considered something. “As far as that goes, outside of the Wandering Companies you seldom find much mingling between Elves, either.”

Glorfindel thought about that. “I knew quite a few Sindar,” he said in an almost tentative voice, then, before Erestor could comment, he added, “Of course, Gondolin was very different to Lindon.”

For a moment his vulnerability was discernable even by torchlight, and Erestor felt a strong empathy with him. Gondolin, like Nargothrond, was no more. For Glorfindel, too, the past was a closed book, gone, leaving no remnant to which he could cling. His quick mind pursued that thread a moment longer, wondering what, if anything, remained of the Hidden City, and whom he could ask.

“You’ve had dealings with the Second-born, then?” Glorfindel asked before the conversation could drift off into silence. He had learned to do this from watching Gil-galad, and was quietly pleased that he was becoming quite proficient. Erestor smiled and nodded, glad to return to less emotive ground.

“I spent some time in their settlements, studying military movements and such,” he explained. “I posed as a trader, usually. That way, I could spend as much time as I needed. They seemed pleasant enough, I suppose. A little preoccupied with their own affairs, but…“

Glorfindel smiled, amused. “That might have been their impression of Elves, too, before you arrived and showed them our true colours – insatiably curious about everything.”

Erestor gave him a startled look. Unexpectedly, the warrior had a sense of humour to go with the extreme good looks and legendary past. He supposed that anyone spending as much time with Gil-galad as Glorfindel was rumoured to would probably need one. The King was as well known for his irreverent wit as for his administrative capabilities or his battle skills. He acknowledged the observation with a flash of dark eyes and a nod.

“Tomorrow I have to give the visitors a tour of the armoury and training grounds,” he confided, though he thought it likely that Glorfindel already knew this. “It surprised me a little. I would have thought their new king would have liked to see to that himself.”

“I doubt that Elros has spent much time training in arms lately,” Glorfindel offered. “It would be more important for him to learn history and lore and the like. He travels to a land without enemies, after all.”

“I hear he has the beginnings of a loremaster’s skill?” Erestor had heard Elrond’s brother was as different to him as chalk to cheese, and his first-hand observations certainly seemed to confirm this.

Glorfindel nodded. “The King’s seen to it that he’s been well-trained in the skills needed for rulership. Not much time to be young, though. Definitely not much time to build on the training he had from Maedhros.”

Erestor widened his expressive dark eyes, his equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “Maedhros trained them to fight?” he asked. Nothing he had seen on his visits to that camp had given any indication of this, although those visits had, of necessity, been brief.

“Enough to protect themselves at need, yes. I’ve tested Elrond – he’s better than good with a knife.”

Erestor pursed his lips slightly, indicating surprise, and they lapsed once more into an easy silence, until Glorfindel straightened up, saying, “I’m for bed, I think. It’s almost time for the watch to change.”

Erestor nodded, though he was reluctant to go to bed where, he suspected, he would be forced to deal with visions of smoky hair and eyes, memories of a responsive mouth and a lithe body. He had a lot to think about; a decision to pursue the Princeling would have the potential to shape his entire future. Erestor’s usual preference was to greet problems head-on, but the longer he could avoid dealing with this one the better he liked it.

“Perhaps we could talk another time?” he suggested on an impulse. “Share a little wine perhaps?” He was horrified to hear his words come out sounding for all the world like the prelude to a proposition. He saw the thought cross Glorfindel’s mind – he had an open face and gave the appearance of being easy to read, though Erestor had an idea this was not always so. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I never meant it to sound like…”

Glorfindel had no idea if an overture had been intended or not, but doubted it. Though a novice to the art of building friendships, he also knew better than to spoil the interlude by allowing it to end on a note of suspicion or discomfort. “Of course not. I’d like to continue this over some wine …another time, of course, when the King isn’t waiting for me.”

Erestor nodded slowly, his expression deadpan. “If you agree to forget how badly I expressed myself, I could pretend you never told me the King was waiting for you at this hour of the night.”

Glorfindel felt heat rush to his face and was grateful for the dark, then he glanced across at Erestor and their eyes met. They surveyed each other in all seriousness for a moment and then the laughter came, open and easy between them.

Erestor straightened up, pushed his shining black hair back from his face and grinned, a flash of perfect white teeth.

“Maybe lunch instead.”

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Over dinner Elrond had dutifully listened and made sympathetic noises as Elros described his councillors, the awkwardness of the evening and the fact that Gil-galad must have been in a particularly sadistic mood to have arranged it in the first place. Privately he thought it had been a good idea, both practical and supportive, and that Elros should have thought of it for himself.

He only managed to avoid listening to a further list of complaints from the normally amiable Elros, this time revolving round Gil-galad, on the grounds that Laslech needed her evening walk, made evident by the fact that the dog, who had recently graduated to walking unleashed at his side, was already waiting at the door. About to head out into the wind-tossed night, Elrond paused.

“’Ros?”

Elros, lying on the couch beneath the window, his feet up on the rest, was feeling tired and disinclined to move. He turned his head to look at his brother.

“After you reach the new land, you’ll make sure someone walks her, won’t you? I know you won’t have much time yourself to begin with. She likes her walk in the evening.”

Elros took a breath. This was a minor detail amongst a sea of items to be dealt with, most of which had no margin for error. He had spent little time with Laslech, in fact he had never been particularly fond of dogs, but she had been a gift from people who would be numbered amongst his new subjects and he would make certain she was properly cared for. Also, his brother was fond of her, and Elros loved his brother. “I will see to it that she has her walk. Someone will take her, I promise.”

Elrond looked at him, further questions on his lips, but in the end, realising that Elros was tired, simply nodded. His brother was the only person whose word he accepted without question. And possibly Glorfindel’s. And Ereinion’s, of course. He frowned at himself. He was really becoming quite disgustingly trusting.

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The garden was evocative of Erestor, and Elrond had to remind himself firmly that the black-haired Elf was almost certainly in his room by this time, possibly already in bed. This thought was of limited value, sending his imagination down paths he preferred to leave unexplored for the present.

They followed the first half of their regular route about the grounds, but the wind had become unpleasant and when they were near the main entrance Elrond decided to cut the evening ramble short by returning home through the Palace. It had been suggested to him that Laslech should be leashed while indoors or in public areas, but it was late enough for him to dismiss the idea with a shrug.

Two of Gil-galad’s senior councillors were standing just inside the entrance, deep in conversation, and he considered braving the rising storm and returning the way he had come, but he was tired of having sand and small debris blown into his eyes. It wouldn’t have bothered Elros, but in some ways Elrond’s likes and dislikes were more in line with those normal to the Second-born than his brother’s would ever be.

“Come on, girl,” he said softly, reaching down to pat the dog affectionately. “Next to me. Walk nicely.”

They walked sedately past the two Elves, who glanced up, registered vague disapproval, something Elrond encountered far too often for it to bother him, and then returned to their discussion. Laslech kept perfectly in step with her companion for another minute, till she suddenly became aware of a potential distraction and, with an excited yelp, shot through the half-open door to their left.

“Laslech,” he called, trying to express sharpness in a near whisper. “Come here!”

Such actions from her normally heralded the discovery of a friend, and his thoughts went immediately to Erestor, seeing black hair, heavy-lidded dark eyes, velvet lips… He took a deep, firm breath, attempting to control the delicious combination of excitement and unease flooding him at the memory of that mouth on his, and followed Laslech into the dim, firelit room.

She was standing on her hind legs, almost bouncing in her efforts to lick the face of an Elf who was sprawled in a chair by the fire, his legs stretched out to catch the warmth of the blaze. He had a hand on Laslech’s head and was patting her heavily. As Elrond crossed the room he realised two things more or less simultaneously: the Elf was Ereinion, and he was far from sober.

Despite being insatiably curious, Elrond’s normal preference was to watch from the outside and remain uninvolved. He had never seen Ereinion drunk before, but his cousin’s choice to overindulge was no-one’s business but his own. Furthermore, he was the High King and if he wanted to sit in a darkened, though public, room and drink, that was his right. Elrond determined to retrieve his – Elros’ – dog and leave.

Then he remembered the councillors he had passed, who would be more than happy to share gossip about the King with anyone willing to listen. Gil-galad managed his council with good humour and an unexpectedly firm hand, often provoking resentment in those circles where, despite the details of his pedigree, he was regarded as no more than Círdan’s protégé. Elrond, who would never leave someone he accepted as family open to harm or ridicule, set about taking control of the situation.

“Laslech, down, get down, that’s enough! Sit!” Fitting actions to words, he pulled the dog off, pushing her bottom firmly down as he told her to sit and was a little surprised when she obeyed. She appeared to understand that something was less than right with the situation.

Gil-galad reached down and continued to pat the dog. His other hand cradled an empty pewter goblet. He looked at Elrond blearily, then frowned in recognition and attempted to sit up. Elrond, a veteran of armed camps where wine had, on occasion, flowed freely and with predictable consequences, realised that Ereinion was horribly drunk. He noticed a flagon on the floor on the far side of the chair, and he wondered how much of the contents, if any, remained. He knew he would have a better chance of getting his cousin to his rooms unnoticed if he managed to avoid antagonizing him and therefore hoped the scowl was something he need not take personally. That hope was shattered immediately.

“Oh, it’s you,” Gil-galad said flatly. “What else do you want?”

Elrond knew there was no point in trying to have a sensible discussion with someone in the state his cousin’s speech suggested. He also remembered the morning he had tried to speak up for Glorfindel and the white-cold anger he had encountered and shivered involuntarily. He had no idea how far alcohol might change Gil-galad’s normally amiable personality, but the King certainly looked less than pleased to see him.

“Nothing, I don’t want anything, Sire. I just wondered if something was wrong, if I could fetch someone… something…?” Some instinct kept him from mentioning Glorfindel by name.

Gil-galad glared at him. “Don’t need anyone. Don’t need anything,” he declared firmly. “Alone. Kings must be alone. Used to it.” He seemed to think about this for a moment. “Not good though.”

The place within Elrond that retained vital information about people’s desires and motives became alert, but he turned the main focus of his attention to the problem of getting a large, apparently unfriendly Elf upstairs without drawing attention to either of them. The three of them, he thought wryly. Laslech would need to be on her best behaviour, too.

“No, I’m sure being alone isn’t good, Sire,” he said, trying for a reassuring tone. “And I don’t see why you believe Kings are meant to be. You aren’t, anyway. You have lord Círdan, you have family, friends, there’s Glori…”

“No Glorfindel,” Gil-galad said firmly, nodding his head and gesturing with the hand holding the empty wine cup. “Can’t. Your Glorfindel.”

Making no attempt to understand this, Elrond raised his eyes to the ceiling and drew in a deep breath. “Sire, can we talk about this later?” he asked steadily. “If we go to your rooms there’ll be lamplight, a better fire. Maybe you can have another cup of wine…?”

This was greeted with a blank stare. “Nothing wrong with this fire,” he was informed. Somewhere off on the edge of hearing Elrond became aware the Elves he had left at the entrance had moved a little closer. He reached down, took the cup, and placed it firmly on the floor next to the flagon, fending off Gil-galad’s attempts to snatch it back. He gave the flagon an experimental shake. It too was empty.

Pushing aside the memory of ice-blue eyes in a quiet room, he knelt beside Laslech who was sitting quietly, seemingly unconcerned. The hand resting heavily on her back was large and capable, with long fingers and squared off, very clean fingernails. Elrond had always liked his cousin’s hands. Carefully he covered it with his own. There was no resistance. They sat like this for a while, the Elf, the Half-elf and the dog, and listened to the fire hissing and crackling and the wind rattling against the windows. Finally he looked up into half-closed eyes. “Why no Glorfindel?” he asked gently. “What’s wrong, Ereinion?”

Gil-galad sighed heavily. “Círdan says. Can’t be weak. Need heirs, Círdan says. You… understand him. Like gold. Golden.“

Elrond took a moment to make sense of this. “Círdan doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Those things are your choice, nothing to do with him.”

“Can’t.” The blue eyes looked suddenly bleak and alone and almost sober. Elrond felt his heart contract in sympathy, and experienced a burst of real anger against Círdan, very different to the normal reflexive irritation. He squeezed the hand still resting under his before rising gracefully.

“Let’s just get to your rooms. Come on. Let me walk with you and make sure no one bothers you.” Or gets close enough to try and talk to you and smell the wine, he added to himself.

Gil-galad stared up at him, assessing the offer. Finally he sighed and nodded and, taking the proffered hand, struggled laboriously to his feet, swaying ominously as he did so. One of the King’s side braids had come unfastened, Elrond noticed; the dark, heavy hair swayed with every motion, and he looked tired, sad and a little confused.

Resisting the urge to tuck the loose hair behind an ear, Elrond considered the practicalities, then tucked a shoulder under one muscular arm and, turning to look at Ereinion from an angle that was far closer than anything either had experienced before said, “Right, hold onto me. Try and make it look natural. And don’t talk to anyone. We don’t want the whole of Lindon gossiping that you had to be helped to your bed.”

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Gil-galad proved far less difficult to settle for the night than Elrond had expected. The King was not so drunk that he failed to understand the need for discretion, and the distance to his rooms was covered uneventfully, save for some hesitation on the stairs that had the Half-elf’s heart in his throat as he imagined himself, entangled with the High King, tumbling down to the bottom.

Once inside, Gil-galad headed straight for his bed, giving Elrond his first look at the royal bedchamber – simple but pleasant, he noted, and decorated in shades of green and blue. His cousin more or less fell onto the bed and into sleep, leaving him to take off boots and loosen what clothing he found impossible to remove. Finally, having done his best, he drew the covers up from the other side of the bed and over Ereinion, scooped random items of clothing onto a chair, and let himself out. The two guards outside the door stared straight ahead. Elrond had already made the need for discretion quite clear to them.

He returned home – it was finally beginning to feel like a home – with Laslech to find Elros had already retired for the night. He had been feeling the strain of the final preparations over the last few weeks and seemed to be almost permanently tired. Elrond tried to settle down with a book, but found himself drawn once more outdoors, some combination of the howling wind and the smell of the sea making him restless, unable to settle.

The Palace was quiet. Elves loved the night, walked happily under moon and starlight, but the weather was wild enough to have driven inside almost everyone besides the guards, whose stations were all known to the Half-elf and easily avoided. He walked at an even pace, going nowhere in particular while giving the impression of having a set destination.

The terrace that ran the length of the private wing of the Palace was in semi-darkness when his steps finally led him there, but as he rounded the corner he saw he was not alone. A pale figure stood straight and solitary beside the balustrade, one hand resting on the stone barrier. Torchlight picked out gold lights in the long hair, confirming the identity of the other wanderer in the night as Galadriel. Elrond moved back silently, seeking shadow while he waited to see if she meant to stay or leave.

His attention was centred on staying as silent as possible and he jumped violently at a touch to his shoulder. He turned sharply and found himself a hand’s-breadth away from Glorfindel, who was wrapped securely against the night in a dark cloak, and whose hair was sensibly braided against the wind.

“Are you trying to scare me to death?” he hissed.

Glorfindel grinned briefly. “I wanted to warn you not to disturb her.”

Elrond looked over his shoulder at the tall, still form, then back to Glorfindel. “That’s Ereinion’s aunt, Galadriel,” he explained softly. “I think we’re distantly related – I forget quite how.”

Glorfindel nodded, smiling. “Yes, I know who she is. I’ve known her all my life – my first life anyway.”

Elrond shot him a half-amused glance. “You said that quite naturally. I suppose you can get used to anything if you have to. It’s starting to get easier, isn’t it? What do you think she’s doing out here this late at night?”

“No, it doesn’t just get easier,” Glorfindel corrected. “It takes a lot of work, but I’m trying. And her? She’s being Galadriel, that’s what she’s doing.”

They were standing as close as lovers, yet without the tension. Elrond felt a sense of security that, up till then, only Ereinion’s presence had offered. Glorfindel had an aura of strength and steadiness which had not been obvious when they first met but which was increasing as the golden warrior found his place in the world once more. Elrond wondered what he had been like in Gondolin. He thought that the freedom available in Lindon might suit him far better than the confines of the Hidden City.

He looked back again at the immobile shape, outlined against the night by her light-coloured clothing and long, fair hair. “She looks as though she’s listening to something?” he ventured. Glorfindel laughed almost soundlessly, warm breath ghosting across Elrond’s face.

“That’s possible, of course,” he agreed. “But I think she’s just enjoying the night. She always loved storms.”

Elrond turned to study Galadriel, moving back against Glorfindel in an unconscious bid to find shelter from the wind, and was aware of hard muscle and, despite the weather, a faint warmth. A hand rested lightly, naturally on his shoulder, and they stood together watching Finarfin’s daughter.

“If you were looking for Ereinion, I can save you the trouble,” Elrond said, remembering belatedly and tilting his head back to speak close to Glorfindel’s ear. “He’s having an early night.”

He felt Glorfindel tense slightly, thought about what he had said, and realised it might be misconstrued. “A little too much wine,” he explained. “I tucked him into bed myself. It was interesting.”

“He was drunk? I’ve never seen him take more than two or three cups.” Glorfindel remembered a night not very long ago when Gil had in fact drunk somewhat more than two cups of wine, and how the night had ended for them, and found himself blushing in the dark, something he still did far too easily even though he was starting to overcome many of the more obvious signs of shyness.

Elrond chuckled softly. “I found him sitting in the dark downstairs. And no, I’ve never seen him drunk before either. He said something about doing some thinking.” He decided it was better to keep his guesses concerning the subject to himself. “No, you’re right, I don’t think she’s listening to anything.”

“Is he all right? What do you think she’s doing then?”

“She’s watching something. And he’s fine; he’ll feel terrible in the morning, though. You might want to speak softly when you see him.”

Glorfindel gave a quiet snort of laughter, and then said, “There’s nothing for her to see out there, nothing but an empty garden.”

Some instinct spoke to Elrond, great-grandson of Lúthien, making him focus his full attention on Galadriel, who remained standing straight and motionless, gazing out into the night. Her hair, he realised, seemed impervious to the wind - it barely moved. He was reminded for an instant of a pavilion on a beach, with the whisper of the sea in the background, then abruptly he felt as though he had moved into another space, somewhere neither warm nor cold, where the wind no longer blew. The space was already occupied by a presence of immense power, will and defiance. He saw a tumble of pictures – faces and scenes foreign and meaningless, unconnected to him, followed by words, distinct and clear.

He came back on a breath at the tightening of Glorfindel’s hand on his shoulder. “Elrond? What’s wrong?”

“She’s watching the sea and looking back into the West.”

His voice shook and he found he was shivering and couldn’t stop. Glorfindel felt him shaking and, removing his cloak, wrapped it round the Half-elf. Glancing over Elrond’s shoulder he saw Galadriel turn her head and look directly at them. Somewhere on the edge of thought he felt rather than heard soft laughter. He glared at her. The gift of speaking from mind to mind had never drawn him, but he had encountered it before.

Placing a protective hand on Elrond’s shoulder and using a skill he had no idea he possessed, and which had formed no part of his first life, he answered laughter with disapproval before he raised a barrier and closed her out from both himself and Elrond. He rested his cheek briefly against the soft, wind-tangled hair. “Come, enough of this. Time to get out of the cold. Let’s find some wine and leave her to the night.”

TBC

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Chapter End Notes

Beta: Enismirdal