The First time Ever I Saw Your Face by Keiliss

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Chapter 1 of 2

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“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.