Windows by Keiliss

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Windows

I could not decide if this was Erestor/Gildor, Erestor & Gildor (with benefits), or just Erestor, Gildor. Probably all of the above.  Just - two people who mattered a lot to one another for the longest time.

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"You're hard to pin down."

Erestor sipped his wine -- too warm, too sweet, not Gil-galad's best vintage this party -- and flicked a look over his shoulder. "I've been here most of the evening, all you had to do was come over and say hello."

"You've been busy. Like an exotic fruit, flies buzzing around. Big ones, little ones, blond ones, dark ones..."

"Yes, you always knew how to pay a memorable compliment." He tried not to smile but it took more work than it should have.

"Anyhow, here we are now. Blessed Yule and all the rest of it."

Erestor tilted his cup slightly. "And to you. I remember when you and the Lady invented this festival. The whole thing with the candles and the fire looks very different in the great hall of a palace, doesn't it?"

"Long way from Balar, yes," Gildor agreed. "A lot of water under a lot of bridges. You're looking well on it though. Nice coat. Nicer moonstones. You were never one for buying luxuries. A gift, yes? From..." He paused, his tone speculative.

"From none of your business." He had not meant to sound as abrupt, almost defensive, it was just how the words came out.

“No, I’m sure it’s not, though I’d be inclined to guess tall and blond. At any rate, they suit you.” He swirled the wine in his cup. “And yet, here you are, over by the window, on your own and with body language that says very much that you prefer it this way.”

“It was getting noisy, I wanted some air but it’s freezing out there.” This was at least partly true. Too many voices talking at once, too much smiling, too much need for charm. His face had started to ache.

Gildor nodded, made a gesture that Erestor remembered as a hint at a shrug. “This is what I like to avoid, yes. Tirion in my young days was quite enough, thank you.”

“In your young days,” Erestor mocked him. “Are you setting up to rival Círdan? A red haired Círdan with minimal sea-going skills.”

“No idea.” Gildor yawned, rubbed his smooth chin. “How do you think I’d look with a beard?”

Erestor considered him, feigning seriousness. “One of those small ones in the middle of your chin, like the Haradrin princes fancy? Or a great, flowing dwarf creation, braided with jewels?”

“Ass. A small, neat one. Númenórean nobility.”

“Whoever is currently in your life, I’m sure they’d enjoy the novelty.”

“Digging, Erestor? When your own life is a dark mystery?” Smokey blue eyes laughed at him. “If I wanted you to know who I was seeing, if I was seeing someone, I would have told you.”

“Likewise. Not that I believe for one moment that you’d be interested.”

“Oh, I’m always interested in your well-being.” Gildor said it lightly though the look that went with the words was less so. “All of us who stood against the dark on Balar are family of sorts, after all.”

“You and I were never quite family,” Erestor pointed out. “If we were, it would be a scandal and a shame in the eyes of the Valar.”

Gildor jerked his head, sending errant auburn locks back over his shoulder. “I think most of what we do is a scandal and a shame to the Valar, really. We are totally incomprehensible to them.”

“Glorfindel says they try, but they lack the frame of reference because their own attachments are so different.” He had not meant to quote Glorfindel, it was just there, pertinent.  And Gildor never missed a thing.

“Ha, as I guessed. Tall and blond. And – not present unless he’s more than fashionably late.”

“He’s gone over to the south side to help clear the path down from the Towers. The snow’s been heavy… He likes to help.”

“He is probably at a bit of a loose end, the Valar sending him back after the fighting. I never understood that.”

Neither did Glorfindel, and it made him uneasy rather than curious. Erestor shook his head. “Inscrutable are their ways, or whatever it is they say. At any rate, that’s a mystery for another day. Will you be here for long? It’s been a while since you showed yourself at court.”

“The nice thing about being born royal is there’s no need to prove anything. Everyone knows who I am, my rank was set at birth. I have no need to hang around here currying favour. Gil and I get along well enough, if I wanted a position I’d have it.”

“So instead you can indulge yourself travelling to places most people have never heard of and sending back the occasional priceless snippet of information to justify the very nice stipend he pays you.”

“Spying is dirty work, but someone has to do it,” Gildor said with a grin. “And flirt with eastern princesses and sample new and fascinating varieties of alcohol along the way. You don’t like my information?”

“Don’t be difficult, I said it was priceless didn’t I?”

He shoved Gildor lightly, in the way they would have of old, back on Balar, when life had been less complicated, concerning as it did life and death rather than places at court and keeping watch on the south.  For an instant Gildor stiffened and then relaxed but in that instant an old hurt in a corner of Erestor’s heart stirred as though sensing – what? An echo of a memory? A short goodbye and a long walk down a strange new road? A cold grey space where once there had been warmth?

Their eyes slid past each other’s. Sometimes he couldn’t be sure if good memories weren’t more painful than no memories at all. “Where are you staying?” he asked. Talk of something else before the empty space finds words to define itself.

Gildor gestured vaguely. “Tanis has a cottage near the water, she said I was always welcome to use it whether they were home or not.”

He still chose not to call Galadriel by her Sindarin name. Too fussy, he'd called it. “I know where it is. Pretty. No idea why they bought it, they’re never there.”

“They’re staying with Elrond now, aren’t they?”

“Yes, free board, a place to plan their next move. Ost-in-Edhil’s gone, they’re not comfortable here – and Gil’s not comfortable having them here if we’re honest – and the other options don’t seem to appeal.”

“I half hoped to find them here,” Gildor said. “I haven’t seen Tanis in a while. Heavy weather for travelling though.”

“It came in hard and it’s stayed that way, yes,” Erestor agreed. “She got a letter through excusing them from the festivities. I have an idea Imladris might be more fun anyhow, no whispers or speculation.”

“Whispers and speculation are the life’s blood of a properly constituted court,” Gildor said dryly. “My cousin loves politics and she knows that, usually enjoys it. You know it now too.”

The words hung there, not accusatory, just a statement of fact. “It could be worse. The work I have is interesting and I don’t do anything too gossip-worthy.” Keep it light.

Gildor twitched an eyebrow. “Assessing information about what happens beyond Lindon’s borders is the kind of puzzle that would appeal to you, I know. I was thinking more of the time when you’re not mulling over some snatch of conversation I or someone like me sends your way.”

“There’s no one like you,” Erestor shrugged. He meant it, on more levels than the obvious.

Blue eyes considered him. “Even so. You made the right choice clearly.”

“No muddy roads and sleeping under bushes, yes. I had enough of that scouring the countryside for survivors after we arrived here.”

“We had fun though,” Gildor said with a reminiscent smile. “Remember the Avari stronghold – for want of a better word?”

“And they thought we were messengers from the Dark Gods who had broken the land.”

“And refused to believe in some Noldo king building a damn palace down where the land suddenly stopped.”

“And you had too much to drink and almost ended up married to the headman’s daughter because of their interesting binding customs!”

It was Gildor’s turn to push him now. “You little bastard, you swore you’d never speak of that again.” He snapped the words, but his eyes laughed.

“Well, it was funny, admit it, and I have no one else to share it with.” Erestor rested a hand lightly, very lightly, on Gildor’s chest, over imported velvet and pale gold damasking.

“There’s any number of funny things there’s no one else to share with now. You had to be there.” He touched one of Erestor’s rings, running a fingertip around the rim. “Peridot?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve had it for ages. I like rings.”

“I remember, yes. Not silver ones though.”

“I thought we had that in common?” Erestor tried to pull his hand away but Gildor kept it there with the weight of a single finger on his knuckle.  Their eyes met.

A sudden rattling noise beside them made Erestor jump. Gildor laughed but with a touch less confidence than earlier. “Rain, chicken. It’s just rain. The wind’s come up too.”

“Bloody winter.”

“The smell of pine logs, mulled wine, everyone huddling indoors together, music, always music… you used to love winter. It made you glow.” Gildor’s voice was low, but his eyes revealed nothing. Gil said once that one of the earliest things he learned was princes of the Noldor gave nothing away, not by look or word, unless they wanted to, and they were trained to it from birth. He had been joking and a little drunk but Erestor remembered his eyes had been deadly serious.   

“Balar was a long time ago. We got thrown out into the world. I doubt you get pine logs and mulled wine on the road either.”

Gildor slanted an eyebrow. “Not often, seldom at the same time. No scents of home here at court either?”

“There’s apple instead. It’s lovely.”

“Apples didn’t grow on Balar.”

“Precisely.”

He laughed briefly. “So you stayed and helped Gil build a great court and track the actions of our enemies and you traded occasional pine for apple and a roof that doesn’t leak and what – reputation? You have one, don’t deny it. The unofficial advisor who whispers in Gil’s ear, the collector of interesting information, all that and that hair and those eyes too.”

“It’s not like that. Well, a little. But not the advisor. I’m a friend from the old days. That makes me suspect but also a desirable friend. I have connections. If I ever finally amount to something noteworthy they will sing songs about me.”

“Normally you have to get killed for them to make songs,” Gildor said cheerfully. “Not thinking of doing that any time soon, are you? I hear it’s deadly dull in the Halls. But you have access to that information I imagine.”

“None of your business, remember? And no, not planning on death. I survived too many wars already. But the death before song is a Finwean trait, so I should be safe. You, on the other hand, grandson of Finwë-who-was King…”

“You never used to worry about that tongue getting you in trouble. I thought court would have cured you.”

Erestor glanced at him. “I know who I can trust.”

“Trust no one, chicken. They’ll all look to their advantage first, not yours.”

“Not you.”

They looked at one another and of an accord turned to watch the room. It was the central hall of the palace, tonight hung with festive banners and arrays of golden suns and representations of the Two Trees – Erestor had never understood their connection to the solstice beyond them being a pretty display. The music was pleasant, though currently there was a break in the dancing and everyone was milling around, drinks in hand, catching up with friends and finding interesting things to say about enemies. Gil-galad was at the far end of the hall, surrounded by a crowd. Suddenly he caught sight of them, frowned, and beckoned.

“You,” Erestor said.

Gildor shook his head. “Not me, he would send someone to invite me. I’m family, remember? It’s you he’s calling.”

Erestor hesitated, trying to find the right words. “You’ll not vanish without a goodbye this time? You did last time.”

“I thought we were beyond goodbyes. But no, I’ll be here for a few days.” It was Gildor’s turn to hesitate. “Staying in…”

“Galadriel’s house, yes, you said. By the sea. With the pretty shell detail along the path.”

Gildor’s eyes widened. “Gods, you really have been there.”

“I’ve been everywhere that’s anywhere in Mithlond,” Erestor shrugged.

“See if it’s worth a visit then,” Gildor said, face expressionless. “I’ll only be here a few days, not half a lifetime.”

“We walked that road,” Erestor pointed out, trying not to watch Gil craning to see what was keeping him.

“Oh, I’m not suggesting we aim for a repeat of those last days” Gildor said on something like a laugh. “Far too dramatic. This?  Nothing more painful than passing the time with an old friend. Come and visit. She left me pine logs to burn.”

--------------o

“You really have pine logs.”

Gildor leaned back on his elbows looking with satisfaction at the blaze. “Would I lie about something like that? Yes, there’s pine, there’s good wine, there’s even food that I had sent over from the palace. All the home comforts.”

“And a raging storm outside, just to add to the atmosphere.”

They were sitting on the floor on a pile of rugs topped by sheepskin, drinking spiced wine while the windows shook from the wind and the sea roared down at the end of the garden. There had been a fair bit of wine and a lot of talk, but the talk had slowly faded to occasional thoughts punctuated by comfortable silence.  “It’s almost like being on the island,” Erestor conceded. “Though there was never this amount of privacy. Not near a fire.”

“Not a chance, no.” Gildor was looking into the flames, his expression thoughtful. Finally he asked, without looking round, “Why did you come? I hardly thought you would, I thought it was just the kind of half promise people make at parties.”

Erestor drew up his knees and joined him in looking into the flames. The bright flickers offered no answer so he had to find his own. “Sometimes – the road not travelled has power to still ask questions? I don’t know. It’s midwinter, nothing’s normal at midwinter. Maybe time can get turned back for a few days – like you calling me chicken, you have not called me that since Balar either.  Why did you invite me?”

“Always a question with a question. You’d have done my job well. You should give it another try. I don’t know? It was there? We did each other enough hurt before we went our separate ways, we’re probably even. Maybe I wanted to see if we could still laugh?”

“We can still laugh, we’ve proved that.”

“Yes, we have.  What else can we still do?”

The flames crackled, the hiss and spit of resin hiding within the sound. There was one lamp lit in the small room, but the true light was the warm golden circle before the fire. The sheepskin was soft to the skin, the air cool but not unpleasantly. And the wine was sweet, though not too sweet,  and felt good going down. Erestor sipped it, shaking his head. “I don’t know? I never thought we’d be different. We were a team for years, and then we no longer needed the same thing. You wanted to travel, explore. I wanted – somewhere more rooted than Balar. Never trust an island the main part of which has been towed across the sea by a god.”

The firelight caught Gildor’s face one-sided, showing a wolf grin and the gleam of an eye. “I would have paid to see the truth of that first crossing. It’s hard to express polite disbelief when it’s your own grandfather telling the story. For the hundredth time.”

Erestor picked up one of the many cushions – they had collected them not just from this small parlour but from the two bedrooms as well – and hugged it to himself. “I think you’re close to blasphemy of some kind, but don’t let me stop you. And I’m sorry, I know the rules. We’re not meant to discuss the past. At least not the ‘us’ part of it.”

“We had other ideas on the best contribution to make after the war. Mine was being the kingdom’s eyes. Yours – you found your place at the centre while mine was on the edges. Life would have been a lot simpler if we hadn’t spent so much time refusing to believe each other, that’s all.”

“And yet, we can still laugh together. We could always laugh, except near the end. And we can talk.”

“We could always talk. And drink too…” He moved forward, took the wine down from the hearth stone where it sat warming, and looked a question to Erestor who held out his cup.

“Never had much trouble sharing a drink when there was drink to be had, no.”

A shoal of rain struck the window then settled into a steady patter. Gildor glanced at him. “You won’t be going back out in that, will you?”

Erestor raised an eyebrow, looking at him over the edge of his wine cup. “Did you make an agreement with some foreign god about the weather? We don’t really have a weather person, do we?”

“Manwë might be the closest,” Gildor said with a flash of laughter. “I don’t have much of a relationship there.”

“No, probably not. You’re one of those rebellious brats who left and hasn’t yet said sorry and gone back. Well, I suppose there is more than one bedroom. And it wouldn’t be the first time I slept on the ground beside a fire.”

“Not your first choice though.”

“Oh Gildor, let it go. No, probably not, but I’ve done it.”

“Just did not see a long term future in it, no. Any more than I saw one in a life at court. We’ve grown up enough to know that won’t change. But I could offer three days with no demands or expectations. If we chose to.”

“And you could keep calling me chicken and not die?”

Gildor’s auburn hair was deep flame where the firelight caught it, his face shadowed save for his eyes. “Something like that I thought, yes?”

“Walk the road less travelled, like adults? It’s probably a terrible idea Gildor – and the Mighty know, we’re good at those.”

Gildor snorted, then abruptly got to his feet and reached down a hand. “I am not asking you to leave this time. You’re not asking me to stay. We are who we are. But it’s been a long time and I’ve missed your smile.”

The room was winter-quiet, pregnant with a certainty of what was to come, but for those last few moments there was that thrill like no other to play with the possibilities, to walk a little along that edge. Then Erestor stretched and smiled the smile of his youth a thousand years ago on an island that had long since gone back into Ulmo’s keeping. He rose gracefully, unaided, then tilted his cup to barely touch Gildor’s.

“The world is a cold place,” he said, eyes and voice serious. “And it’s supposed to be the season of hope. For a little while, just for a visit, it would be good to come back home.”

 -----o

Gildor left three days later, just as he had said. There were other events at court connected to the midwinter festivities, but Erestor saw nothing of them. Eventually, if asked, he would find a reason for his absence. He was good at thinking on his feet.

He spent very little time on his feet during those days in Galadriel’s house above the beach. There was a lot of sex – cool air on heated flesh, shallow breathing, cries, curses, grunts, an instinctiveness that came from many shared years in many shared beds. Kisses to make the head spin, churning heat potent enough to blot out the world, the right touches in the right places. For the rest of the time they slept late, a special treat in the old days on Balar and one to be savoured now as well  when life left little room for self injulgence. They ate breakfast in bed when they were ready and spent the nights by the fire, finishing Gildor’s cousin’s wine and talking less than they had expected.  There were other ways to pass the time.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the visit to the road less travelled was over.

The great hall was filled with light and people, the air delicately scented with spice and herbs. The light felt too bright and the voices too loud, like being a newcomer in a foreign land. Erestor took a glass of good wine and moved about the room, purposefully avoiding too much conversation. After a while he found himself back at his favourite window, the one with the view over the water and up the hill past the houses on Cirdan’s side of the estuary.  The sun lay low above the horizon and the water was very still. In the distance he could make out movement, a lone traveller on the path to the highlands of Eriador.

There was a commotion at the far end of the hall, near the entrance, with people calling greetings, laughing. Candlelight sparkled on hair like spun gold, outlined the broad-shouldered elf who had paused just inside the doorway looking around. Then Glorfindel saw him and his face lit with a smile. He raised a hand in greeting and Erestor smiled back, feeling the warmth of the welcome, of having someone who wanted to be there for him, demanding nothing in return that he could not give. Someone kind and generous and reliable, whose optimism made the world seem fresh and new.

He turned to retrieve his glass from the windowsill, and as he did so sunlight caught the hair of the traveller on the hill and sent back a glint of scarlet. For a moment the room fell away and he was out there in the cool air, striding uphill, wind on his face. He could feel the stillness of almost-dusk, hear the sea and the cries of gulls resenting winter’s early sunset. And there was the connection, the link of long belonging.

And then he drew in a very firm breath and turned from the window. No promises, no waiting, no offer of a return. Stepping deliberately over the threshold from what might have been, he took the long walk across the room to Glorfindel and a more predictable future.

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Chapter End Notes

Still unbeta'd. I'll get there.