Tinker, Tailor, Bromance, Spar by Gwanath Dagnir

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Chapter 1

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64 S.A.

 

The guest chambers that had been assigned to Elrond were on the opposite end of the residential wing in the capitol building. As Gil-galad traversed the distance there from his own offices, he put this on the ever-lengthening list in his mind of things to have rearranged. Now that Elrond’s place in his court is affirmed, he should reside nearer to the High King’s disposal. Ahead, he saw the door was left open as he finally came down the last hallway, and voices exchanged within. Thinking nothing of it, he walked inside without announcement.

On the edge of the foyer strewn with clutter, his own tailor knelt before Elrond who stood facing a mirror against the wall. Bainloth had been commissioned to design a respectable wardrobe for Elrond, who arrived at Lindon with little more than the clothes on his back. The tailor appeared to be in his usual state of self-inflicted agitation, but he rose at once to bow, ribbons of cloth draping over his arms like branches of a willow tree.

He removed pins from between his pinched lips to say, “I’m doing the best that he will let me, my Lord.”

Elrond turned around from the mirror, clearly nursing his own frustrations, and pulled off two samples of fabric draped over his shoulders. “What we agreed upon originally would have been quite good enough.” His face went blank to realize he had just stripped himself naked from the waist up in front of the High King. “Uhm, hello.” He bowed belatedly and waved one hand holding a swath of chartreuse fabric with turquoise stitching between himself and Bainloth. “We are working through some artistic differences.”

“Strange way to describe a battlefield.” Gil-galad stepped carefully through the plethora of shears and tapes and patterns and trims and spools scattered about the floor to come further into the room.

“So that’s final, are you refusing these masterpieces as well? Alas my fate!” Bainloth huffed at Elrond as he snatched the samples from his hands.

“Those were not even among the lot you showed me before, else I would have refused them at the time and spared us this trouble.”

Bainloth cradled the rejected fabric for either its own comfort or for his. “How was I to know back then that you would be named to the High King’s court? This changes everything, the whole aesthetic must be reimagined!”

“It does not change what is ugly or what is not.”

No stranger to the theatre, Bainloth gasped and withdrew to demonstrate his offense, clutching the bundle of obnoxious prints to his wounded heart as if anyone would want to take them from him.

Gil-galad knew this drama would escalate until Bainloth either got his way or was overridden by royal decree, so he interjected to say, “Dear artisan, you are a master of your craft, but it pains me to see you working this hard. Please, go take a stroll to reinvigorate your inspiration while I confer with Elrond for a moment. I insist.”

Bainloth sniffed once and with chin raised indignantly, spun on his heel before marching out of the room. “Perhaps some of your majesty’s refined taste will rub off on him while I’m gone. Good day!”

Gil-galad picked up a roll of fabric discarded on a chaise and turned it about, trying to determine if its needlessly complex pattern had a right or wrong direction. “Bainloth can be eccentric, but he means well,” he said, once the intentionally-thumping footsteps had gone out of hearing.

Elrond gave him a weathered look. “Tell that to the hapless bystanders who would be forced to look upon six-plus feet of the monstrosity in your hands, if I were polite enough to let him dress me in it.”

Gil-galad peeked both directions before dropping the spool to the floor and kicking it under the chaise where it might be overlooked and spared ill use, such as being made into clothing. He turned to Elrond and smiled to see his joke resonated. “Círdan mentioned you were looking for me.”

Elrond’s grin fell lopsided. “That was two days ago.”

“Ah yes, well, I have been… inundated. Apologies.” There followed a busy pause wherein Gil-galad simultaneously resisted the urge to give detailed excuses and contemplated the tangible possibility that he had in fact been avoiding Elrond. Since his arrival in Lindon, they had been nigh inseparable, until a drunken snafu some nights ago resulted in what Gil-galad could not be certain was a schism between them or if just by coincidence obligations kept them apart since then, being only so noticeable because of their previous closeness. (Were they not still close?)

The Half-elven eyed him in that indecipherable way, one species assessing the antics of another. “No need to apologize, my Lord,” he said evenly. “I wanted to relay that I met your captain Bellcrist by chance, and we debriefed regarding the regimen for the Guard.”

Nodding, Gil-galad skipped to the end of where he presumed this was headed. “I’m sure you will agree with him that it is subpar. He has been petitioning for resources to overhaul the program and indeed reconstruct the campus almost since it was built.”

Elrond shifted. “We spoke together of many things, though least of all his ambitions toward that which you have outlined. Rest assured he is not trying to influence you through me. But I would like to tour the grounds and observe their routines, if you would release me to do so.”

The training facility was a few hours by horse from town, and Gil-galad knew even the least rigorous mode of Bellcrist’s syllabus completed over the course of several days. “For how long?”

“A full cycle would be ideal, eventually, but as an introduction I thought just a fortnight.”

Gil-galad wandered closer as he considered. “I came to bring some news for you as well, perhaps now you will consider it ill-timed. A council is being formed in preparation for Celebrimbor’s expedition East, and I have designated a seat for you. Its first meeting is in nine days.”

“Then excuse me until then, when I next become useful to you once more.” Elrond looked away and down, idly toeing the boundary of discarded materials that encircled his feet. “That is, I mean-”

Before he could compose a rephrasing, Gil-galad caught a glimpse of his back in the reflection of the mirror behind him. Stepping still closer, he angled for an unimpeded view. The flesh of the muscled landscape was marred from shoulder to hip with lines like the scratching of claws, some thin and white and some jagged and red.

Elrond shifted his attention to being stared upon. “It was a long time ago,” he said, tensing under the inspection.

Gil-galad had thus far indulged Elrond’s reluctance to discuss his time in the war, never really considering what horrors went unsaid thereby. Now faced with it, he swallowed against a lump in his throat. “You were tortured?”

“No, I fell down on an Orc’s whip repeatedly.”

Equal in height, Gil-galad squared up to Elrond and met his gaze full on. “Do not make light of such dark things. I may never have seen warfare firsthand, but I have seen the devastation left in its wake – upon ruined lands once sacred to Elves, and within the broken hearts of my people. It is no laughing matter.”

“Yet you must know, lord, that we all express healing in our own ways,” replied Elrond unabashed, tilting his head as if he heard something unspoken. “Thank you for your concern.”

Now standing so close, close enough that their heat and scent and breath mingled, Gil-galad was struck with the intimacy- nay the vulnerability- nay the inappropriateness of these circumstances. He dreaded that Bainloth -chatty with every noble in Lindon- might find it amusing to ponder what the High King wanted Elrond for, alone in his room half-dressed. He dreaded someone else might walk in at any moment. He dreaded Elrond would sense his dread. He took a step back to release the tension and change the visual, leaning casually onto one hip and giving Elrond a pointed look over to prove how innocuous it was.
“I suppose, and perhaps you Half-elven do so in ways particularly strange to us. Come to think of it, I’m surprised such scars remain. Elves heal rapidly and thorough; usually only grave damage leaves a lasting trace. You seem otherwise as hale and hardy as our kind.”

“Indeed, enough so that my tormentors mistook me for one of you. And while Orcs are dim creatures overall, they do comprehend Elven resilience, and they hate it, and for that reason some bother to lace their weapons with poisonous substances to stifle the healing and worsen the pain. If there is a path toward cruelty, they will find it.”

Gil-galad went cold to realize this meant two orcs took a turn at him, one wielding a befouled lash whose wounds could not mend properly. It is said the hands of a king are the hands of a healer, and though Gil-galad did not possess that skill, he ached suddenly to try. He had to turn away and put space between them to quell the imagery of suffering in his mind.

“Bellcrist is a veteran as well, of course you’re aware,” Elrond went on. “In these peaceful times, his zeal for schooling on warfare and training for combat may seem misplaced. But he understands the cost of preparedness is less than the price of complacency. If ever evil arises again to threaten your realm, the generation that faces it must not be strangers to the mettle required to conquer such trials.”

“Hm. Seems I should cease to worry that someone might persuade you to influence me toward their will, since you are this skilled at doing it for yourself.” Gil-galad sent a wink over his shoulder. “The truth is, I have intended to visit the campus myself, it’s been years since I last did so. Depart as soon as tomorrow if you wish. I will come out to meet you there in one week’s time and make my own rounds.” He turned to watch the reaction when he said, “And then we can ride back together.”

Elrond did not flinch, nor did he outwardly rejoice. “All right,” he said, bowing his head.

“Is it truly?” Succumbing to an unkingly pang of insecurity, Gil-galad asked the floor, “Are things all right between us? After the other night.”

Elrond waited until their eyes were reunited, and long considered his response. “I hope so,” he said at last.

“Good, then we are aligned. See you next week. Oh-” With his foot, Gil-galad nudged a pile of cerise silk woefully embroidered with aubergine thread. “By the way, I will recommend to Bainloth that your colour scheme ought to be understated compared to my own tastes, and more likened to the Laiquendi you mingled with whilst sheltering in old Ossiriand under the Fëanorians’ charge.”

Elrond’s eyes narrowed, amused and curious. “I never told you about that.”

“How else would Maedhros hide his prize hostages and what remained of his host from me?” Gil-galad forced his grimace into a smile and released clenched fists. “Besides, you do seem a little ‘green’ by Ñoldorin standards. Bainloth will not question it, and what he designs under those criteria should please you.”

“I thank you, and on behalf of countless innocent bystanders no less. See you next week.”

~TBC~

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Chapter End Notes

(Bainloth and Bellcrist are OCs)