The First time Ever I Saw Your Face by Keiliss

“How many survivors?” Glorfindel asked. He was cleaning his sword and didn’t look up when one of the captains in training for a leadership position approached. Glorfindel had seen a lot of blood and disaster over the years but he would never get used to civilians being slaughtered like cattle. It made him short and impatient.

The captain sniffed, cleared his throat. “Sir, I think about ten? I came to ask you about the horses, they’re...”

Glorfindel looked up at that, clear blue eyes like the northern ice fields. “I’m sorry? About ten? But you want to talk about horses? People come first, son. Always. Go and find out how many survivors, their ages and names, then tell me about the horses after that. Unless they’ve bolted, in which case you’d better go and find them.”

“Yes sir.”

He left with a lot less eagerness in his step and Glorfindel leaned on his sword and looked around. They were in the burnt-out remains of a village, its fields smouldering around them. It had been an elven settlement, one of many small ones outside Imladris that provided resources not available in the valley. It was mainly chance that brought his patrol here, being in the right place and facing the right direction to see there was something wrong. The smoke on the skyline had been too thick and dark to be a controlled burn and they had galloped the horses, but even so they were too late to save most of the villagers – he could not for the life of him remember the name of the place although it was on the big map in his office. They had fought well though and left their mark on their attackers. He had been impressed by one of the girls he had seen they arrived, who handled a sword as though born to it, though from the length of it not her own.

All he wanted at that moment was to stay quiet and let the situation settle around him, but there was no time for that. There were the attackers to burn, short, pale-haired men with narrow eyes and tattooed faces, and their own people to bury once the fire was beaten back properly from the fields. Glorfindel was good at organising burial parties: he had done it many, many times. He sighed, sheathed the sword – not his own, which was with the master smith for repairs, but a good loan nonetheless – and strode down to a knot of warriors who were locked in discussion in front of an open shed.

“Problem?” he asked, reaching them.

The men parted to let him see for himself. The scene was like a slaughterhouse, or a battlefield in miniature. Everything – the walls, the ground, even the roof – was spattered with blood, and the bodies of two of the attackers and an elven couple lay contorted in death. The man’s head had been shattered, probably by an axe, the woman’s clothing was torn, her neck broken. A third elf sat cradling a child in his arms. She was dead but he was not, though his eyes were fixed and blank. A bloodied sword lay on the ground beside him and his hand hovered near the hilt.

“He won’t let us take them, sir,” one of his men said quietly. “Go any closer and up comes the sword. I don’t think he knows who we are, just that we’ve come to take his people away.”

Glorfindel sighed. He walked forward a few paces then crouched down so they were at eye level. The elf was young, not much more than a boy, blood spattered and dishevelled. He had the honeyed skin of the Avari, with a startlingly beautiful face and brown eyes under a tangle of long black hair. “You need to make them ready for burial,” Glorfindel said in a firm, matter of fact voice. “We’ll see to the intruders – we’re burning them. Can I get someone to help you here, one of the survivors – one of your own people?”

The brown eyes flickered, came to rest on him. Arms tightened around the girl’s body.

“Your sister?” Glorfindel asked, adjusting his voice to gentleness.

There was hesitation, then the boy breathed, “Brigit.”

Glorfindel nodded. Avari, yes. Though he thought the mother looked Noldorin. “That’s a pretty name. And those are your parents? What are their names?” The men were shuffling impatiently, wanting to be done with this, but he ignored them. Some things deserved to be handled right.

The boy made no reply, but he was starting to look more focused now, more aware of here and now. He glanced at the sword beside him, shuddered and created a little distance from it.

Glorfindel decided not to push it. “You’ll need to tidy them, wash the blood away,” he said. “You have about an hour. I’d like to give you more time, but we need to leave as soon as we can, in case there’s a larger group drawn this way by the smoke. I’ll get someone to help you.” He leaned forward, touched the dead girl’s cheek, then drew her eyes closed. The boy jerked then stilled, watching his hand. “She’s safe and beyond pain now,” Glorfindel told him, speaking quietly. “The Lord of Silence called her home to a place of peace. Don’t be afraid for her. This – this is no more than her body, laid off like a suit of clothing.”

He rose and looked around, then caught the eye of one of his veterans, Raegbund, a quiet spoken man with children of his own. He beckoned him over. “Would you mind giving a hand here, getting them ready for burial,” he asked. “I’ll see if that girl with the sword skills will help – she seemed quite steady. As for the rest of you, get over there and lend a hand with the burial site. We’ll need some deep digging and a lot of rocks for a cairn.”

Raegbund watched the boy laying his little sister on the ground, moving carefully as though she could feel what was done to her. “He take them out himself?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the dead attackers.

“Seems to have,” Glorfindel replied. “Doesn’t look like professional work, just someone doing the best he could.” To the boy he said, “You had blood for your blood. No one can ask for more in the end. See what you can salvage to take with you when you leave, and choose something small for each as a grave gift.” They had not done such things back in the old days, but he’d rather liked the idea when he first heard of it – something small, some mark of love.

“What’s his name?” Raegbund asked. The boy had risen now and was staring in the direction of the street, away from what remained of his family.

Glorfindel shook his head and went over to touch the boy’s arm. “When you’re ready we need your name. And your family’s names. No one’s passing should go unremarked.”

The boy seemed not to hear, his eyes fastened on the apple trees in the yard opposite. Glorfindel paused, then shrugged and turned to leave, clapping Raegbund on the shoulder in passing, but had only taken a few steps when the boy finally spoke. “Caladwen and Gelb,” he said. “My parents are Caladwen and Gelb. And my sister is Brigit.”

“Good,” Glorfindel said. “We have a book of names, people we’ve lost. We send them to the coast in case there’s someone down there who would want to know, and from there they go over the sea to family there. No one’s forgotten. If there’s someone who needs to be notified, it’ll be done when we get back to Imladris.” The man had been Avari and while Imladris had no direct contact with the remaining tribes that roamed Eriador, Gildor’s people would pass the word, in case.

“What’s your name, lad?” Raegbund asked, taking the sword from him and propping it against one of the wooden posts that held up the overhang. Glorfindel paused, needing to leave but wanting to hear the reply. For a few moments the boy said nothing, as though he needed to think about it.

“Erestor,” he said finally. “My mother called me Erestor.”

-----o

It was a hard winter with chill winds and heavy snows, on several occasions cutting the valley off from the world. When the secret way up to the moorlands was passable, Glorfindel had patrols crossing the area from the High Pass to within sight of Amun Sul and discreetly into Rhudaur itself. There was concern about more than just the sudden influx of foreigners, sometimes seen fighting alongside orcs, sometimes wreaking mayhem alone. Up in the north shortly before the upheavals began in Rhudaur, the new, closely guarded kingdom of Angmar had risen and was starting to challenge Argeleb of Arthedain for control of the Great East Road. Elves from Imladris through to Mithlond stayed permanently watchful: that road was their only access to the Grey Havens and the sea road to Aman.

With all these concerns Glorfindel had little time to check up on rescued civilians once they got to safety in Imladris, but about a month after the slaughter at the village he happened to stop off at the kitchen and noticed the boy, Erestor, kneading bread. His hair was wound up on his head in an unusual style and his face was grave as he pressed and stretched, pressed and stretched. Glorfindel got Mirima the cook aside and said quietly, “The new boy, how’s he settling down?”

She shook her head, frowning. “Erestor? Odd one that. Hardly talks, never smiles. But he does as he’s bid and you only have to explain something once. Loves reading too, they tell me. Lord Elrond himself loaned him a book. Didn’t think the dark ones read or wrote things down like us, I always heard it was all stories and song.”

Glorfindel frowned. He had no problem with oral traditions. In Gondolin he’d had a Sindarin house bard and had no idea if the man could read or write – he had never been seen to do either. “His family died when their village was attacked, Mirima. It’s natural he’s quiet.”

Mirima was not an unkind woman, just practical. She regarded Erestor for a moment. “I’d not known that about his family, my lord. I’ll walk softer with the boy then. He’s a good worker, learns fast.”

Glorfindel stopped by the table on his way out. “Everything all right, Erestor? Do you have everything you need?”

He mentally kicked himself as the words left his mouth. Of course he didn’t, and never would again. Erestor shrugged very slightly and nodded. “Thank you, my lord. I have a room and food in exchange for working in the kitchen. I need nothing else.”

He had a very faint accent, a hint of ‘otherness’ and his voice was – smoky, Glorfindel decided. He kept kneading while they talked, almost mechanical movements that showed more strength than his slender form hinted at. Glorfindel remembered the dead invaders. He would have seemed at ease, just young and earnest, were it not for his eyes, shadowy and watchful. “If you need anything else, let me know, all right?” Glorfindel found himself saying. “It takes time, Erestor,” he added gently, remembering his own losses and pain. “But in the end it becomes one memory amongst many, not the main, overarching one.”

“Raegbund tells me that too, my lord,” Erestor said in a tone that suggested he didn’t believe a word of this. “Maybe in a year or so.”

Glorfindel was about to leave when he remembered what the cook had told him. “Mirima mentioned you like reading? You know how our library works, right?”

Erestor’s face softened slightly. “I went to ask and Lord Elrond was there and said I could read anything that interested me. I ask Turtegiel - she works there, binding books - if I don’t understand something, she says she doesn’t mind. There was never much time at home for lessons.” His face shut abruptly on the memory of home.

Glorfindel, who knew on a very personal level how this felt, nodded as if this was unremarkable behaviour, which in a way it was. Pain was a precious thing, jealously guarded at the start. “You should ask her to find you a dictionary. Much quicker. And if there’s anything else you need, come and ask me, all right? Everyone knows where my office is. I’m usually there in the mornings.”

Eyes the colour of good brandy studied his face for a minute before Erestor nodded. Then he gave the dough a final slap and dropped it into a pan and searched around for a cloth to cover it. The vagaries of the kitchen were beyond Glorfindel. He finally remembered he had work to do and left, but not without a final glance from the doorway.

-----o

When next he saw Erestor, it was during sword practice on the flat open space used for training. Not as a participant, but as Glorfindel defended himself against one of the more promising recruits while running through the list of things still waiting for his attention, he began to sense eyes on him. It took a couple of moves – slide left, feint, twist, turn left again – to be facing in the opposite direction, where he saw Erestor under one of the trees, sitting with that straight-backed stillness the Avari had perfected, watching. He barely had time for a quick smile of greeting before he was almost embarrassed by his opponent and had to drag his attention back to the task at hand. There was certainly no time to analyse the way his stomach had lurched at finding him there

When he finished his bout Erestor was still there, his attention now on a pair of very new trainees who were doing their best under the tutelage of Lainadan, one of the senior captains, a man whose experience stretched back to Doriath before the rising of the sun. He took the proffered towel and then, vigorously rubbing his head and the back of his neck, walked over and hunkered down beside the quiet watcher. “What do you think?” he asked, indicating the two young men.

Erestor looked back at them as though making sure of something then said, “The shorter one, he keeps looking to see who’s watching. If this was a fight with a different opponent, he would be dead. But the other one, he steps away from the blade. He knows to fear it still. My uncle… I was told that if you are afraid of getting hurt, you will be?”

Glorfindel blinked, taken aback. The reply was accurate and completely unexpected. And again he remembered the village, the boy with the blank eyes and the bloody sword. “I never thought to ask – would you like to join them? You’d started your training before…”

“We all learned,” Erestor said softly. “Boys and girls both. It was always dangerous. At the end we tried, but there were so many of them.”

Glorfindel nodded. “Yes, I know how that is. There were too many of them when they took Gondolin too. Don’t listen to the songs, we weren’t heroes, just desperate men fighting to try and keep our families alive and our city safe and it didn’t work there either.”

Erestor’s brow furrowed. “I never thought of it like that,” he said. “The bards would come through the village, going up and down between here and Tharbad, and they would give us songs: Gondolin was one of the favourites. When I was told you were Glorfindel, I thought it was a lie to begin with. It seemed impossible you could be a real person.”

He felt laughter bubble up in him. “The Glorfindel you heard about probably isn’t a real person. I’m just – someone who was born into the right family, learned to handle a sword and am good with it, and do my best now to keep this valley safer than the other one I lived in.”

The smile he received was small but genuine and the first he had seen from the boy – young man, he supposed now. No one who had buried parents was ever a child again. It softened the serious lines of his face and lit his eyes, which were closer to amber than brown now he looked properly. “Seriously though, if you’d rather be out there training than in the kitchen – not that food isn’t important…”

Erestor shook his head, tendrils of black hair sliding loose from a casual bun. Sunshine slanted down through the leaves and caught the strands, painting them with shards of rainbow light. “Food is important, yes. And learning. But not fighting, not for me I think. I have done my fighting. If I go on, I will stay angry. Anger serves no purpose, it is a poison.”

Glorfindel remembered the anger and self-loathing he had to deal with, even after rebirth, the sense of not having been enough, of failing friends and family and king alike. “There was a time in my life when I wish there’d been someone to tell me that.”

The smile returned, more freely now. “Oh, that was in a book, not my own idea. But it made sense, so I try to follow it – let anger go, don’t carry grudges, don’t hate... “

“That,” Glorfindel said with conviction, “was not written by one of my Noldor kin.”

Erestor's eyes danced. “No, it’s from Gondor, a philosopher named Gimlibên. They didn’t think much of him there either.”

“You’re finding time to read philosophy?” He had imagined, so far as he’d thought of it, that once the initial shock wore off Erestor would slide into one of the social circles amongst the younger residents of Imladris and have less time for more solitary pursuits.

Erestor slanted a look at him. “There were twelve books in our village, thirteen if you count the one about sheep farming which was no use because we had no sheep. I would read the ones I could borrow over and over. Now there is a building filled with them. Anything I want to learn more about, it’s in there and people will help me find it. It’s like – like eating the most delicately grilled fish in a white wine sauce after a lifetime of bean stew.”

“Maybe you should ask if you could go and work there instead?” Glorfindel suggested, reaching for half-remembered conversations in the Hall of Fire. “There’s always place for someone to help with the organising and looking after things for the scholars. Not that we have as many coming to study here these days, thanks to the fighting. The roads aren’t safe.”

Erestor was watching him intently. “I never thought of that, do you really think I could ask? I was told to work in the kitchen when I got here, but…”

“Working there gave you chores that wouldn’t demand too much of you,” Glorfindel replied. “Elrond says grief needs time and busy hands and there’s something to that, but I’m sure Istuion would be happy to find you a place if you ask.”

And if not, a discreet hint should be enough to make it happen.

-----o

The library was not, as in most places, a more or less random collection of books to be borrowed and read for pleasure or information by the community. Its roots lay in the early days of Imladris, when refugees had pooled their resources and shared what books they’d salvaged - mainly educational but with a little fiction and some poetry – and Elrond had looked at this and conceived the idea of something more, a centre for study and research in one of the most secure places in Middle-earth.

Over time it had grown into an assemblage of stored knowledge covering almost every subject under the sun, from the mating habits of bears to the education of children, with stops in between for philosophy, geography, and the history of the dwarf clans. Scholars came from distant havens to study there, not just elves but sometimes men and even the occasional dwarf. It was still somewhere the residents could come looking for light reading to pass the time or information on a specific crop or trade, but its fame rested in the size and scale of its contents and the speed and accuracy of its copyists.

The atmosphere of spreading gloom was almost palpable as Angmar’s reach grew further and Glorfindel had little time for anything not related to defence. Even so, he managed several stops at the library to see how Erestor was getting along. The idea had been a good one. He had been started off in the children’s section, keeping it in order and suggesting books to parents, but in what was to become a pattern he was not content to leave it at that.

“He’s only been here two months and he’s started a reading day for the little ones, where they sit quietly on the floor and have a story read to them. He says it will teach them to listen and like reading.” Istuion, the senior librarian sounded bemused. Such a thing had never happened before. “He even makes them bring cushions to sit on. I told him we had more important things to do, but he just said no, where would the next generation of scholars and scientists come from if they never learned to love books.”

Glorfindel just managed a straight face. “And they actually do sit quiet and listen, don't they?” he asked, though he knew the answer. He remembered Erestor cradling the dead child in his arms and his chest hurt.

“Oh yes, they never misbehave around him.” If anything, Istuion was even more confused by this. “Sit there like lambs. The bigger ones even ask sensible questions. And then when that’s done he’s off for his calligraphy lessons.”

“He told me he wanted to learn to write properly, not the casual script he learned as a boy, yes.”

Istuion pushed fine though sparse brown hair back over his shoulders and shook his head. He was tall and thin and looked rather as Glorfindel expected a senior librarian to look. “That young man - he’ll write as well as any of my scribes given time. What he lacks in skill he makes up for in pig-headed determination. He has little formal education, my lord, but I’ve not often seen a mind as keen.”

-----o

The ‘pig-headedly determined’ junior librarian had a rather different view of things, as Glorfindel found when he managed to persuade Erestor away from his round of work and study and practice to go for a walk on the river path, a popular stroll along a lightly gravelled, shady path beside the Bruinen, with flowers and scented herbs growing amongst the grass and benches or convenient logs set at intervals. It ended shortly before the bridge across the river that accessed the route up the cliff and secret exit from the valley.

“It’s miserable work and my wrist aches after a time. I’ll never make a scribe, but at least I’ll write a legible hand when I’m done with this.”

“And that’s important to you?” Glorfindel asked, quietly amused.

“It helps if I have to write to someone who doesn’t know me and ask for information about a book or a scientist or something like that? And it means these days I can even read back my own notes.”

Glorfindel laughed with him, legible note taking was a problem they had already found they shared. It was busy out, with people taking advantage of the good weather, and he noticed a few heads turn to look and then carefully not look in their direction. There were only a few Avari in Imladris, which meant Erestor’s very dark hair and honey-warm colouring drew attention, not necessarily in a good way from some. Avari had a mainly undeserved reputation for being flighty and unreliable. That Erestor was in the company of no lesser person than Elrond’s second in charge made for good gossip.

“I hear you’ve started reading to the children? Istuion seemed confused.”

“Istuion is really good at finding new works and encouraging research but he knows nothing about children,” Erestor said, pausing to rub his fingers along a rosemary stem and breathe in the scent. “I don’t think it’s ever occurred to him that not everyone likes studying.”

“Unlike you, yes,” Glorfindel agreed. “It’s unusual though – well, you’re unusual I mean. When a gift comes this naturally there’s not always an understanding for how rare it is.”

“You teach trainees to use a sword,” Erestor replied. “Some of them are quite useless to begin with, too, but you keep working with them. So you know it’s not easy for everyone. I like learning new things and I remember what I’ve read or heard, but it doesn’t seem to work that way for most people that I know. And that’s all right, we’re all different.”

“How did you know I’ve been working with the juniors lately?” Glorfindel asked, surprised. They slowed to a stop as they reached the open space where families picnicked and ball games were played. The obvious choice at this point was to turn around and go back, but that in turn led to a quick goodbye as they took their separate paths back to work.

Erestor gave him a look that was almost though not quite a smile. He still seldom smiled fully and there was still a shadow behind even the most casual glance. “Some days I watch them train during my break,” he said. “I eat my lunch there and see who learns fastest or who might be better working in supplies. I like trying to understand why.”

Glorfindel gestured towards a spot further along where an old oak spread dappled shade. “Sit for a while and talk?”

The hesitation was almost tangible, and he was about to retract the suggestion when Erestor said quietly, “People will wonder, my lord. I am still an outsider here. “

“Because you’re Avari?” Glorfindel couldn’t keep the distaste from his voice. He had never understood the level of prejudice that suggested anyone not Noldor was in some way inferior. Even the Sindar, close cousins, suffered it.

“Half Avari,” Erestor corrected him. “And yes. My father’s people hunt and live in bark or sod shelters and have no letters and time their seasons by the stars’ transit. Very primitive to some. People assume I’m here to serve the patrols as a tracker. When they find me in the library, they think my job is to clean.” He shrugged as he said it. There was no heat or discomfort in the words, just statement of fact.

Erestor never spoke about his family in any detail, the hurt still too deep and close. This was the first time Glorfindel had heard him refer to one of his parents. “Doesn’t this bother you?” He couldn’t imagine not being bitterly annoyed to have such assumptions based solely on his appearance.

They reached the tree and Erestor looked up at him, clearly amused. “Someone not knowing who you are might just look at your hair and think Vanyar? Poet. Pacifist. Mystic. Assumptions always get made when people don’t know better. They fill in details from the few facts they have and usually get it wrong. That’s their problem though. As long as Istuion doesn’t think I should be sweeping floors, I’m happy.”

He sank down gracefully as he spoke. Glorfindel paused, watching him, intrigued by how composed and at ease he seemed. He had a meeting with his captains later in the day and should read over the last few reports before doing so. Things had grown very tense outside the valley since Argeleb’s death and the ascension of his son to Arthedain’s crown. But they could hardly start without him and if he was less prepared than usual, no one would care to point it out.

Glorfindel found a seat in a hollow of tree roots, turned to face Erestor but leaning his head back to keep the sun out of his eyes. “A poet, eh? With callouses on my hands from sword work?”

“People see what they expect to see and ignore the rest,” Erestor told him, gently running his fingers over the old tree’s knotted roots.

“People,” Glorfindel responded, “miss a lot. Most of it way more interesting than the fantasy they’ve put together from two small hints.”

“You don’t do that though,” Erestor said softly. “You wait and listen. Even to frightened children at the end of their world.”

Their eyes met, held. Glorfindel touched his hand briefly and nodded. “If not, I’d have missed a lot otherwise, and been the poorer for the loss and never known what it was I lacked.”

-----o

“Yes, I am following you.” Glorfindel’s tone was bantering, but his eyes hinted at more serious intent.

Erestor raised an eyebrow. He had an armful of books and his hair up atop his head, held in place by what appeared to be the kind of stylus children used for practicing on wax tablets. “In which case you will of course join us for a retelling of the legend of the fox and the badger? It’s quite long but I refuse to include the animal noises to spice it up.”

“A disappointment then.” Glorfindel touched his shoulder, indicating he should turn around. “That is the most novel hair ornament I’ve seen in years. Perhaps you could start a trend.”

“People will just think it’s some kind of Avarin aberration, won’t they?” His eyes crinkled a little at the corners when he was amused, Glorfindel had noticed.

“Well it would confuse everyone who says the Avari have no written language.”

“Or suggest I have no idea what a stylus is used for.”

“People can be idiots.” Glorfindel said it softly, still with a hand barely touching Erestor’s shoulder. “As you’ve said before, they see what they want to see.”

“Seriously, were you looking for something? Can I help?”

Glorfindel hesitated before replying, knowing he looked too long, too speakingly, but doing it anyhow. Finally he said, “I wanted something about the history of the coastal cities beyond Gondor. I’ve been given the general outline and Elrond will always answer questions, but while I have time I wanted to get a good overview. Can you suggest anything? I know it’s not your area…”

“I’ve found there is one thing just as good as being an expert on something,” Erestor said with a wry smile.

“Oh?” The light touched Erestor’s face just so, and brown eyes became topaz, sparkling, unique. It took his breath for a moment.

“Knowing who to ask. Wait here, I’ll get her.”

The woman Erestor went to find was an expert on the Harad and knew a great deal about the history of Númenórean rule in the south. Not only did she easily explain a few things that had confused him, but she found two very thorough books for him: one had in fact been written by her.

By the time he was ready to leave, Erestor was busy elsewhere with a group of young people, explaining the difference in the filing systems used for scrolls and bound books. Glorfindel paused in the doorway to that section, listening. He had a clear, concise way of explaining things, very much to the point, and took questions well. Just as Glorfindel had expected.

Enemy activity close to the valley kept Glorfindel busy and away from home for the next two weeks, moving from one small patrol group to the next, watching how his men operated under the increased tension as they tried to develop a sense for what they might soon face. Once home it was another two days before he got to see Erestor and it took an exchange of written messages to arrange time and place, mainly due to Glorfindel’s full schedule of meetings and consultations.

They chose one of Erestor’s favourite places, a little garden beside the library entrance, a quiet, calm place where white flowers bloomed amongst shrubs and groundcover in shades that ranged from green to silver, while the birch trees that clustered between garden and library added their own silvery sheen. It was far enough from the house that the main sounds were of birdcall, the soft thrumming of bees and the river’s babble; there was nowhere in Imladris where one was far from the river except well up into the foothills, and it was such a common background Glorfindel now barely heard it except in the quiet of the night.

Glorfindel had cheese and fruit, and while they ate they talked. Erestor was animated company, using his hands to good effect, rather as the Nandor did. He had been meticulously polite at first, respecting Glorfindel’s rank and history, but they had spent enough time talking by now that sometimes Glorfindel thought he almost forgot who he was with. He was full of questions and Glorfindel gave him stories of the land between there and Bree and the people they met on patrol. While he was talking he found himself wondering, as he had on the road, the exact shade of Erestor’s unusual eyes. The light brown of mountain water, he decided after a while, with gold glints which he knew by now could turn almost amber.

Erestor stopped mid-sentence, his eloquent hands wide spread and still. “Is something wrong? You’re staring.”

Glorfindel grinned, unembarrassed to be caught out. “I might have been. Truth? I was trying to decide what colour your eyes are.”

Erestor’s brow furrowed. “Brown, they’re brown of course.”

“That’s common with your father’s people? Brown’s a rare shade for Noldor or Sindar.”

For a moment he wondered if this was too personal, but then Erestor squinted up at him, the container of fruit they had been sharing forgotten between them. “It isn’t that common there either, at least I don’t think so. Most have green or hazel eyes. Or Sindar grey. Brown is odd, except amongst the Edain.”

“It isn’t odd,” Glorfindel insisted. “And they’re not just brown. They’re like mountain water or good dwarf whisky.”

Erestor gave him a side look from under his lashes and a softly curving smile. “I have never drunk dwarf whisky,” he said, laughter in his voice.

For a breathless race of heartbeats Glorfindel was almost sure Erestor was flirting with him. He told himself he had imagined it or made more of it than was there, but the sweet warmth that spread through him told its own tale of the effect of that almost-laugh. And those eyes.

Pulling himself together, he snorted. “I’ll not be rectifying that right next door to the library, I’ve a fair idea what Istuion would think. Here, Whisky-Eyes. Do you want the last cherry?”

-----o

Whether or not that had been flirtation - and Glorfindel spent a fair amount of time going back over each word and half glance - their growing friendship was certainly real, and all the sweeter for being unexpected: Glorfindel had spent most of his free time in Imladris with Elrond and his family or the more senior of their lord’s advisors and the military veterans, while Erestor had earned a reputation for being a loner. Sometimes they walked along the riverbank, occasionally they shared a meal, always they talked. Glorfindel was fascinated by Erestor’s quick, incisive mind and instinctive wisdom about people and he seemed to find Glorfindel’s work and past experiences equally interesting. Also, he laughed at Glorfindel’s jokes, which was a bonus as not everyone caught on to his dry wit. There was a sense of something building between them, something indefinable that would name itself in its own time.

It was a matter of weeks before Glorfindel was off again, riding with patrols, crossing from one group to the next as he took in information, felt the wind, and heard the low voices of rock and tree. In the end he went almost as far as Bree, not sure what he was looking for, just that he would know it when he found it. For a while he rode with one of Cirdan’s scouting parties and got a first hand report on the situation further west. Back with his own people, there were more sightings of orcs and a few mild skirmishes, but nothing to hint at the actual strength or skill that Angmar could muster. He turned back to Imladris eventually, dissatisfied and with a sense of being in the path of a gathering storm.

They were three days out when he decided he’d had enough. There was nowhere safe to make camp along the road so they rode through the night, only stopping briefly to rest the horses. It was mid afternoon when they finally reached home, but a long discussion with Elrond and a visit to the baths to get rid of the smell of horse and the grime of weeks on the road came first, before he had time for himself. After that, instead of going in search of real food like a normal warrior after almost a month of travel rations, he took the now-familiar walk round to the side of the house where the library was located.

There was hardly anyone about, unusual for Imladris, but it was day’s end and most were either relaxing at home or getting ready for dinner.. The library itself was open until mid-evening unless the weather was particularly foul, though with only one or two staff on duty. He knew that Erestor liked those early evenings, using the quiet, child-free time to set his space in order.

He skirted the general reading room and made his way with only one wrong turn to the junior section with its big windows looking out onto soft grass and a reed-lined pond, home to a family of ducks. Erestor was there, a silhouette against the fading light, standing with his back to the door.

“I thought I’d see if you were still here.” Glorfindel had come with vague plans to invite him to share a meal or a glass of wine or something, but the words stuck and then the pause was too long.

Erestor turned and walked towards him smiling, well-shielded lamps picking up the warm tones of his skin, the sparkle of his eyes. “Raegbund said you’d not be back for another tenday when I asked. Were things better than you expected?”

Glorfindel shook his head. “If anything, it was worse. Not that we were attacked, and we only saw one burnt-out farmstead, but it – felt wrong. I came back to consult with Elrond. I’m thinking of pulling the patrols back in, closer to Imladris, just send out small scouting parties…” He listened to his voice jabbering on and had to force himself to stop. “Anyhow, yes, home sooner than planned.”

Erestor passed him on his way to a table piled high with books and scrolls. “I was just putting these away, then I’ll be done for the night.”

“I’ll help you.” Glorfindel was glad to have something else to focus on. Left to himself he might have rambled on about troop deployment, the makeup of patrols and the names of the children of every warrior who was also a parent.

Erestor gave him a quick smile and scooped up an armful of books. He indicated the scrolls. “I’ll show you where they go.”

“I thought we could get something to eat when you were finished? It’s informal dining tonight.” This usually meant a meal would be brought to his room unless he stated otherwise, which he hadn’t, and he realised how it might sound as the words left his lips. “In the dining hall, I mean.”

“I assumed the dining hall, yes,” Erestor said, straight-faced but with the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice. He led them between bookstacks, away from the windows and the tables and benches for writing and the comfortable floor space with cushions. The light stretched probing fingers in behind them, throwing deep shadows. *The scrolls go over there, in those pigeonholes, any order. They’re maps, big, bright-coloured things with fantastical drawings on them … If you ever want to know what an ice bear looks like, this is the place for it. The sight’s enough to give small children nightmares.”

As he spoke, he was placing books into empty spaces, almost by touch in the dim light. Glorfindel went over and stacked the scrolls. He let one slide open a little way and brilliant colours glowed even in the gloom. The picture was of a cheerful-looking little red dragon. He was smiling when he turned around to Erestor, now empty handed and closer than he had realised, watching him. “Dragon,” he said. “Not like any dragon I ever saw – far too friendly.”

“Oh, that’s the map of the east. I think the dragon’s meant to signify it’s very hot there – I must take a look.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m glad you are home. I – worry when you aren’t. The world outside this valley is dangerous.” He still never spoke of his family or the events that had brought him to Imladris, this was the closest he had come that Glorfindel could recall.

“I’m not alone and we’re well armed and careful,” he said, his voice also dropping, gentle in that quiet space that held nothing but soft settling noises and their voices. The air was cool but his blood was heated, it sang in his ears like sea-music. Erestor was a shadow-creature, all charcoal lines and midnight hair, his eyes a hint of gold. Glorfindel had no idea that he moved, just that next moment he had that lithe body in his arms, and with his fingers buried in impossibly soft hair, his mouth found and claimed Erestor’s. And Erestor’s response was instant, turning into his embrace, an arm going around his neck, mouth opening to his questing tongue.

The night was no longer cool, it was a heated confusion of moving shadows, quick breaths, incoherent phrases. He had half wondered if Erestor had any experience of physical love but there was no uncertainty here, and he felt a moment of intense relief before all such thoughts were swept out of his mind. His hand found its way along Erestor’s arm to his shoulder by instinct , his fingers working on the lacings at the neck of the casual work robe he wore. Erestor made a low, throaty sound and pulled at his tunic. Glorfindel took that moment, and that moment alone, to release him and tug the offending item over his head, then he pulled Erestor back against him with contained violence, fingers tightening in his hair, his erection grinding against Erestor’s hip.

He ducked his head, mouthing velvet skin, gasping as Erestor nipped his earlobe. His fingers tightened, he sucked hard at the base of Erestor’s long, smooth neck, sparks surging through him at the hissing gasp in answer. He had the robe off Erestor’s shoulder when he knocked his shin against something – a chair, a stool, he had no idea – and they both went off balance, Erestor wrapping his arms around Glorfindel to save himself from falling. They seemed almost to hang in mid-air for a moment, in some place between before and after, then Glorfindel recovered himself and, still holding Erestor, lowered them both to the floor.

He lay propped on an elbow, staring down at the curve of Erestor’s face, the parted lips and half-closed eyes, the swirl of hair. His own hair was coming loose, gold tendrils snaking down, tangling with Erestor’s ebony locks. He bent and kissed him again, and Erestor surged up against him, fingers twisting in his hair, drawing him in closer. Glorfindel used his free hand to work the robe down lower, fingers dragging across warm smooth skin as though trying to taste it. He pressed closer, his erection insistent against Erestor’s, his hand following the curves and angles of his body down, while they shared hungry kisses that grew rougher as his hand moved lower.

Finally Glorfindel released his mouth, his lips following that line again from chin to base of throat and then lower, tongue flicking, teeth grazing golden skin and fragile bone. Erestor was breathing hard, moving his head from side to side, his body undulating, a leg over Glorfindel’s now, pinning their lower bodies together. Glorfindel’s tongue found and slid flatly over a crystal-hard nipple, returned. He sucked sharply and Erestor cried out, the tug to his hair sending points of lust darting through him like flame arrows.

He released the nipple with a final hint of tooth and leaned up again, putting a hand to Erestor’s cheek to make him look at him. “Yes?” he asked. There was no other word necessary, no explanation. Erestor started to nod, but Glorfindel saw the hint of uncertainty, somewhere under the heat and desire and willingness. He sat up slowly, feeling with a visceral regret how their bodies separated, how Erestor’s leg released him.

“What?” he asked, keeping his voice calm, though it was unsteady and his heart raced like a rabbit fleeing a hound.

Erestor put a shaky hand on his arm, his eyes intent and serious even as his chest heaved, lungs dragging in air. Lamplight caressed his face, emphasised kiss-swollen lips. “My father’s, people,” he said hesitantly, voice husky from passion and lack of air. “My father’s people mourn for a full circuit of stars – not of the new lights, but the stars they always knew. There is no giving and taking, no reaching for new joy before grief’s shadow has faded. I don’t know – us - is this wrong?”

An Avarin star circuit was equal to about half a yén, and for a moment Glorfindel wanted to say that is not the way of your mother’s people, and that’s who you live amongst, and who I am, and what you now are…. And then he remembered the village, the bodies, the boy with his dead sister who he had not, in all these months, mentioned nor openly mourned. Leaning forward he very gently kissed Erestor’s forehead. “That seems like a good and respectful custom to me,” he said, forcing his breath back under control. His body was another matter entirely but that would settle soon. “Time is a small gift for those we love. If we went on, you would always feel you gave them less.”

He had to separate their hair before they could get up, untwine tendrils that had mated before their bodies had the chance. Then he took Erestor’s hand and tugged lightly for him to sit up, helping him with steady hands to dress. Erestor watched him from under his lashes, a veiled, uncertain look. His breathing was still light and shallow, his eyes very focused. Glorfindel searched deep and found a natural, easy-seeming smile, the fruits of long years as a courtier in Gondolin. “That’s you seen to, though we need light to sort out our hair. Right now, I’m not quite sure about where I lost my shirt.”

-----o

He waited for Erestor next day around the time for his midday break. He came out of the library a bit later than usual and looked unsure to begin with, but Glorfindel suggested a walk and had oat cakes to share so slowly the awkwardness faded and it was almost – though not quite – as it had been. A few times he caught Erestor watching him as though to be sure of something, but by the time they turned back he thought he had made it clear that he accepted what had been agreed the previous night and was at peace with it. Not that he was completely, there were memories that would haunt his nights now, but he had been raised to respect tradition, and tradition was all Erestor had left of his father’s ways.

Over time they fell into a routine of sorts, almost without noticing it. Normally he came looking for Erestor, but now and then Erestor came to his office with little gifts: a book that might be interesting, a plant because there were no green things in the room and it had seemed happy to stay in a pot, once a perfect green duck feather. One day, when the air was cold with the shadow of rain, he arrived with two honey cakes wrapped in vine leaves and put one down in front of Glorfindel.

“Just baked,” he said. “I could smell them so I went and asked if we could have some. They like you in the kitchen, all I had to do was mention your name.”

Glorfindel had learned young to keep in with the kitchen staff wherever he lived. He gave Erestor a smile. “My day needed cheering and you’re just the sight for it, and an excuse to stop work for a while.”

Erestor perched comfortably on a corner of the desk. “Making notes from a map? Are you changing patrol schedules then? I thought that was someone else’s job, that you just signed the orders?”

This was the truth, he left the mechanics to his second-in-command. “I’m looking at how many and where. And we need more permanent stations further down the road, closer to Amun Sul.”

“They’ve come down this far?” Erestor had the cake raised to his mouth, about to take a bite, but stopped. Everyone in Imladris. down to the children and the most hardened warriors, felt the tension, the fear of war approaching even their protected haven, but for Erestor it was more a reality than for most: he had already tasted the aftermath.

“Small groups, nothing you’d call an incursion yet, but once they come pouring out of Angmar in force it’ll be too late to start worrying about keeping the road to Mithlond open. Círdan does what he can from his side, but we need to do our part too. I want watch stations here, and here, and perhaps here.” He pointed out spots on the map as he spoke and Erestor leaned over to follow where he meant.

“Are you working with the men from Arthedain then?” he asked, brushed fine dark hair back from his face.

Glorfindel shook his head. “We join together chasing orcs and the like, but cooperation is light at best. They have their concerns, we have ours.”

“Looking at that map and how far down the East Road you want to place our people, I’d say it’s a joint concern now. Surely it would be a good time to send someone as a kind of ambassador to King Arveleg , see what can be arranged? This is a shared enemy, there should be shared resources matched against him.”

Glorfindel listened, for once without being distracted by shining hair and whisky eyes, taking in the measured words, the thoughtful air. “You need to talk to Elrond,” he said. As Erestor made a gesture of demurral, he shook his head. “No, at my next meeting with him, tomorrow morning. A new pair of eyes, a different view – these are things we need. I’m not wasting your insights by filtering them through me as a third party. What we’re doing isn’t enough, and this might be the right road to take next. What’s the worst he can do?”

“Say no?”

Glorfindel grinned. “Exactly. And then you drink the tea and eat the cake – there’s always cake – and go back to work. But even so, you might have sown a seed. I’d like to see what he thinks of your ideas.”

-----o

The spring of 1405 was late in coming and was followed by a cool, unusually wet summer that straggled along toward the autumn equinox. Beyond Imladris brief encounters with the forces of Angmar became full scale confrontations. Círdan had Mithlond sealed off from all but elven visitors. The men of Arthedain fought alongside the warriors from Lindon and Imladris, the result of Erestor’s suggestions on the need to convince the new king to join forces with the elves. Elrond had been intrigued by his understanding of the different forces involved along with his instinctive grasp on diplomacy and started including him in general discussions and then later in more formal planning sessions.

People had almost become used to the sight of Erestor and Glorfindel together and only rarely now did someone stare or whisper to a friend. They ate together, spent time in the Hall of Fire enjoying the music or sometimes just sitting by the fire and talking with Elrond and his family and closest advisors. There was no repeat of the night in the library, but they did hold hands and Glorfindel always kissed the knuckles of the back of his hand goodnight at the end of the evening. They shared the occasional kiss during musical performances in the Hall, when they were sitting in one of the more secluded corners, Erestor leaning his head against Glorfindel’s shoulder, but never anything when they were alone. It would have been too hard to step away again.

One day, when the air had grown chill and the trees were dropping red and gold leaves throughout the valley, Erestor caught him leaving his office on the way to the training ground. “I won’t keep you,” he said before Glorfindel could get a word out. “I just wanted to ask if you could meet me by the river tonight, that spot by the bench under the willows, where the bank is level, not sloping straight down.”

Glorfindel frowned, puzzled. “I know where it is, yes. But what…?”

Erestor shook his head. “I’ll explain later, not now while you’re in a rush. Just – it’s time. And I’d like you to be there.”

It was only after he left, turning the corner and leaving the corridor empty although people still moved up and down, that Glorfindel remembered autumn and a devastated village and understood.

Erestor had not said when to join him beyond ‘tonight’. Glorfindel had a meeting with his captains and was expected to dine with Elrond and a guest from beyond the valley, so it was later than he had hoped before he could get away. He left the dining hall, sidestepping everyone from the high table on their way to the Hall of Fire, and took one of the smaller side paths down to the river, breathing in the autumn scents of damp and beginning leaf rot and the bright chill of the air. It was cool after the warmth of the dining hall and he almost turned back to get a cloak but too much time had passed already: he went on.

The place Erestor had chosen was obscure and tree-dark, away from more popular locations, but Glorfindel had no trouble finding it. Leaving the path when he reached the bench, he made his way silently through long grass and between the trees down to the water’s edge. Erestor, when he caught sight of him, was almost invisible against the facing cliff, but then the moon came out from behind the clouds, touching his hair with a soft sheen.

He had a container beside him and a bag, and his hands were busy with something. After a moment Glorfindel saw he was weaving reeds together, something he was very quick and deft at – everyone in the village had been good at basketwork, he said once, and everyone helped: it was a regular side income for them. He glanced up but then returned to his work once he was satisfied it was Glorfindel.

The night was calm, the river hurried on its way, the trees whispered their secrets, and the hidden life and death battles of the night went on around them, barely audible. Occasionally a fish leapt, or something fell into the water from one of the trees. There were no voices, not even distant sounds of music, they could have been alone in the middle of Eriador. Glorfindel sat, knees drawn up and clasped, and said nothing, drinking in the night and an energy that was uniquely Erestor. He asked no questions: answers would come soon enough.

Whatever Erestor was making, there were several. As each one was finished, he would reach into the container, add something to his creation, and then set it aside and start weaving the next one. When he was done, he put the last item down on the grass beside him and flexed his fingers a few times before finally looking at Glorfindel. “My father taught me about this,” he explained, pushing his hair away from his face with the back of his hand, a little mannerism Glorfindel found endearing. “He said his people would do this once a year, to honour the memory of anyone lost during that time. We did it for my uncle, who was taken by an old boar, just him and me and Brigit. He said it came from the old days before Sun and Moon, when dark things moved in shadows, before the Light Elves ever left the land. Tonight I should name the whole village, but it would take too long and I don’t remember all the names – I think they’ll understand.”

He fumbled with something, then Glorfindel heard steel against stone and saw the tiny sparks. One caught and held for a moment and he sent out his energy to surround and nurture it. It steadied and he saw Erestor tilt his head to watch it and could see the curiosity soon replaced by a rueful, knowing look. “I was never much good with a tinderbox,” he admitted, producing a candle and turning it carefully so the wick would catch.. “But it only needs one flame to light the rest.”

He held the candle, shielding it with one hand, and the air around it grew hazy and soft in the damp from the river. Carefully he picked up one of his weavings, and then Glorfindel realised they were shallow bowls, each with a candle fastened in the centre. Erestor lit the first one and held it up, watching the flame strengthen and burn. “This is for my village,” he said, and his voice was low but steady. “I made it a bit larger because it carries the names of everyone who was lost, too many to recite, not all known to me.” Leaning out over the river he placed the candle holder carefully onto the water and the Bruinen took it gently from him, carrying it smoothly.

Erestor watched it while he lit the next candle. “This is for my father,” he said. “His name was Gelb. He taught me how to work with metal a little and how to hold a sword. More than that, he taught me to read and to love the power of books because he had only come to them himself when he was grown. He was a good man who married for love and went to live far from his people and never once complained.”

The river accepted the second candle from him. It swayed and turned a little but then followed the first, the little lights flickering eerily in the dark. Glorfindel had moved to the edge of the bank and stood, head bowed, hand to heart, Gondolin’s customary homage to the dead.

The third candle flickered and he steadied it with a small gesture, barely necessary. He had no idea if Erestor noticed this time. “My mother was called Caladwen.” The husky voice was distant, firmer now. “She was the best singer in the village and was the best grass weaver. She loved to bake, and she loved to tell tales of the old days, the way they had been told to her by my grandparents who I never knew. She always had time….” His voice trailed off and for a moment he seemed not to know what to do with the candle, but then he leaned forward and it followed the others, a little trail of light going down the river.

He held the last little woven bowl cupped in both hands watching them, then lit the final candle and waited as it flickered and then grew, straight and pale gold. “This is for….” He stopped and his shoulders shook. He tried again for the words, lost them, and his breathing was hitched and jagged.

“This is for Brigit,” Glorfindel prompted him, quietly into the river night. “Go on, you can do this for her.”

Erestor swallowed audibly and straightened up. “This is for Brigit, my sister,” he repeated. “She was funny and sweet and annoying and pretty and I loved her so much from the day she was born that it hurt my heart. And hardly anyone knew her because she was gone too soon, but I will never forget her, never stop loving her.”

His hand hovered over the water, as reluctant to release Brigit as he had been before, then he gave the last candle to the Bruinen and they watched it follow the rest of the family of lights that represented all that the child Erestor had known and loved downstream, flickering gold holding back the dark for a tiny while.

Glorfindel sat down on the grass beside him and put an arm around his shoulders. He knew Erestor was crying even before he touched him, but that was right and as it should be. It had taken him longer to reach the point where he could openly mourn his own family, but time moved differently in Aman. “Not forever,” he said. “And not forgotten, not as long as you remember. There is light and time in the West and a chance for a fresh start should souls desire and Lord Námo allow it. Love them and miss them, but they will always be part of you, either there or during the second Music.”

“My father was born and died here and none of his kin ever saw the Trees,” Erestor said against his shoulder. “Everything I’ve read…”

“Is probably wrong,” Glorfindel told him. “And written by Noldor thinkers who believe us to be somehow set apart and special. One day when we cross the sea, you’ll find I’m right.”

“Can we do that together?” Erestor asked, his head against the curve of Glorfindel’s neck, hair cold and soft against his skin. “Cross the sea? I would hate to go alone. Aman seems so vast, so far away.”

Glorfindel rested his chin atop Erestor’s head and held him closer, looking out into the dark at a future still incompletely sensed. “Not for a long time, there’s too much work still to be done here. But when the time comes, if you’re willing to wait for me, yes of course. You’re my love, who else would I want to make that final voyage with?”

Out on the river the last light passed around the bend, taking the little flotilla out of sight. The night closed in again, unexpectedly dark for the lack of a few tiny candle flames. Tears drying, Erestor stayed quiet for a while, watching the water from the shelter of Glorfindel’s arms. “I feel as though i don’t know what’s next,” he said at last. “I spent years waiting to do this, and now it’s done and i don’t know what follows, how life moves on.”

“Life follows,” Glorfindel replied. “A life we can share, if you will. Not tonight, I know, and not tomorrow either perhaps, but we’ve come to that place now where there’s no longer a reason to pause and wait. “

“And you really want to follow that path with me? You, a lord, a hero, who could ask anyone to walk with you?”

Glorfindel laughed, but quietly because it was not a place for loud voices. “From the first time ever I saw your face,” he said. “It might have taken me a while to realise, but all the talking we’ve done, the thoughts we’ve shared? You are the one I want to go down through time with. If you’ll have me.”

Erestor reached up and touched his cheek, moonlight bringing out the glitter of his eyes, the sheen of his hair. He looked long and serious at Glorfindel, then nodded. “You’re right, life follows,” he agreed. “And now there’s no longer a reason to wait for love.”

The soft breeze of earlier was strengthening. He straightened up, brushed hair back from his face with the inside of his wrist and looked around. Glorfindel picked up the bag and Erestor dropped the tinderbox into it. “Time to go, I think,” Glorfindel said. “Wind’s coming up.”

“Winter’s on the air,” Erestor agreed. “The nights are getting cold.”

Glorfindel glanced at him, raised an eyebrow.. “They don’t have to be,” he pointed out.

Erestor actually laughed. “True enough,” he said, holding out his hand. “Though as you said, not tonight.”

Glorfindel took the proffered hand and kissed the back of it as he had so many times at evening’s end. “I know this wasn’t where you thought your life would lead, but it’s not an ending, just the start of the next chapter. The beginning of something new for us both.”

Eresstor looked down at their linked hands . “It’s very dark here now,” he said. “I think I would like firelight and a song or two. And to share them with you.”

Glorfindel knew without being told that he was asking if this was all right on such a solemn night. Briefly he saw that village once again, the dead and dying , the boy with the sword and the unseeing eyes. And he saw Gondolin in flames and heard his mother’s screams. “Firelight and a song or two are the balm on many of the world’s pains,” he said gently. “Elrond always says he sees the Hall of Fire as a place of healing in its own right. Music and good company - I think there could be no better way for our future to start.”

 ~~~u~~~

And the first time ever I lay with you
I felt your heart so close to mine
And I knew our joy would fill the earth
And last till the end of time

(from The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face by Roberta Flack. Songwriter: Ewan Mccoll)

Chapter End Notes

Betad by Red Lasbelin, who gave me the idea, and the title, and put up with the moaning and hand-wringing that went before, and protected the story from my deadline-induced meltdowns. Bless you, dear.