Glorfindel sat ruminating in his chambers. He was sprawled on his grand bed, his injured leg propped upon some pillows with a pot of tea ready beside him on the night table next to a bouquet of freshly cut flowers. An open but unlooked-for book lay limply in his hand as he stared blankly at the wall opposing him.
He kept rubbing the thumb and fingers of his free hand together in something like a nervous gesture as his wide eyes occasionally blinked to keep off the dust.
There's no way to know how long he would have remained in such a state had not his reverie been broken by a polite tap at the door.
He blinked, though unsurprised at the interruption. He'd already had more visitors than he cared for. "Come in."
Glorfindel was surprised, however, at who stepped through the door. It was Erestor. His somber robes -- neat and clean -- his immaculate hair, and altogether tidy and sober appearance seemed out of place in Glorfindel's bright, cluttered room, and for a moment Glorfindel took into his head the idea of painting a portrait of Erestor standing there, perfectly out of place.
"I take it you're going to survive then?"
Knowing Erestor as well as he did, it was easy for Glorfindel to hear both the humor and concern in the Counselor's droll statement. "I will if people stop pestering me," Glorfindel answered, glaring darkly around himself at the book, the pot of tea, the vase of flowers.
"Well then, I'm so delighted I thought to bring you something." Erestor's mouth wasn't smiling, but his voice was.
Glorfindel rolled his eyes. "Not you, too ..."
"Yes me too, but I -- unlike others -- understand that tea is not a cure-all, flowers do not heal, and books do not distract from pain. I thought you might amuse yourself better by keeping your hands busy, considering how little you choose to use your mind."
Glorfindel overlooked the slight on his intelligence when Erestor placed into his open hands a small block of soft wood and a whittling knife. He handled the gifts reverently, as though they were delicate and precious things. Looking up into Erestor's deep dark eyes, he found himself to be quite speechless.
Darting those eyes away, Erestor searched about and pulled up a nearby chair, first folding the shirt that was hanging off its arm. He sat himself down and looked to his own hands curled in his lap as he spoke, quiet and sincere. "I remember a time when things in Imladris were different. There were times when it seemed there was hardly anything to do. In the deep of those summers three hundred years ago; do you remember? No visitors, no harvesting, no threat of snow or chill. There were weeks spent luxuriating in the knowledge that we had no obligations and no worries. I remember. I remember how you used to clutter up the shelves of the House with little figurines and models and miniature carvings." Erestor stopped himself, smiling as he weakly blushed. "I thought you might enjoy it," he said of his gifts.
"I know I will," Glorfindel finally managed.
When Elrond dropped in on his patient for the afternoon visit, he was slightly shocked and more than slightly aggravated to find wood shavings covering the quilt.
He had knocked softly and then crept into the room when there was no response. He had been glad to see Glorfindel sleeping restfully, gold hair in a braid like rope over the pillow, a small and fairly harmless knife in one hand, and something of indeterminable shape clutched in the other. The blue and white quilt that covered him above his waist was littered with splinters and tiny curls of wood. The scent of pine was overwhelming.
Despite his minute disapproval, the half-Elf halted at the sight, taken back so many years ago when Glorfindel had actually had time to indulge in this favored hobby.
For a moment, Elrond wondered from whence these gifts might magically have come, but then noticed a path of folded clothes from the door to the bed and he knew that Erestor had come. He shook his dark head and took up the seat at Glorfindel's side. "Looks like you're getting closer," he whispered fondly to his charge. Then, deciding that he didn't have anything better to do, he took on the painstaking task of picking all the shards of wood from atop Glorfindel's sleeping form, nails deftly grasping hold of the tiniest splinters that had wiggled into the tight wool of the quilt.
After disposing of the sawdust, Elrond removed the knife and set it on the bedside table. Then, he tenderly pried the chunk of wood from between the clutching fingers that had hidden it. Elrond gasped, holding the thing close before his eyes as though his own inner light might illuminate its meaning, though the meaning was clear enough.
He had never seen Glorfindel form a tiny sculpture quite like this. It appeared as though a rose bloomed entwined with edelweiss from within a curving seashell. The artwork was frighteningly lifelike, despite the dark grain of the wood, and the symbolism was appallingly clear.
Love. The rose was love. No matter your age or race, you knew this. The rose had always been love; the rose would always be love. Though a rose is also graced with thorns.
The edelweiss. A hard-won or unattainable goal, for the edelweiss flower grew high among the dangerous crags and was difficult to find and to pick and to keep.
The seashell. The sea. The Sea. Long had the sea been a bittersweet call to many Elves. For beyond the Sea lay an eternal home.
Then, as Elrond cradled the little thing no bigger than a fist in his two careful hands, he felt an odd texture on the bottom. He turned the sculpture over to find a knotwork design painstakingly etched into the flat bottom of the pine block.
He could not suppress the gasping sigh. The Golden Flower. The Acorn. Hopelessly and carelessly and irreversibly interlaced.
Not many knew that Erestor's family symbol was the acorn, but doubtless Glorfindel had known and had carved this piece with a purpose.
Elrond set the carving beside the knife and leaned over the blue-white bed to kiss Glorfindel's calm, cool brow. "If this doesn't do it," he told the deep sleeper, "I swear I'll tear my hair out."
He stood and retreated, whispering into the room again, "You're absolutely hopeless. Both of you."
Erestor came again the next day.
Glorfindel met the knock with an eager, "Come in!" and upon the sight of Erestor's dark form, he pulled himself to sit up straight in the bed, the long blond braid hanging over his shoulder. Glorfindel glanced aside to the statue, suddenly wishing he could hide it.
But as Erestor took shuffling steps across the room, he wasn't looking at the carving or at Glorfindel.
"Erestor?"
The Counselor sat in the chair, hands in his lap, face paler than usual. "I'm sorry ... How is your leg?"
"Oh. Better."
"Good."
"What, Erestor? No insults, witty insinuations about my intelligence?"
Large brown eyes peered out from under that loose strand of black hair. "Glorfindel, I don't always take pleasure in tormenting you."
"I know," he smiled. "Just usually."
"Um," Erestor reached into the folds of his dark robes and dug around, looking for something. "I ... I meant to give this to you." Finally, he came up with a folded packet of papers. He stood and passed it with a shaky hand to the golden Elf on the bed.
Glorfindel took the parchment, examining it curiously. It was worn and faded, as though it had lived in Erestor's pocket the past hundred years, frequently read and handled, though it very clearly had his name on.
He looked up, saying, "Erestor?"
But the Elf was long gone, the door open, and Glorfindel was alone.
So he unfolded the papers to read.
Glorfindel.
Love letters are not my style. They are old-fashioned, sentimental, and cowardly. I, however, admit freely -- to you if to no one else -- that I am all these things now that my heart has finally submitted to the angstful whimsies of love.
I imagine you may understand when I tell you that from birth my life has been a turbulent one. I never had time, I thought, for love. In that callow youth of mine, I did not understand that we, most often, do not have the opportunity to make choices where hearts are concerned. When I grew older, I soon saw for myself the great ironies, tragedies, and triumphs of love. Always, however, they seemed distant to me. I saw, but did not know, I was jealous, but did not recognize it, I wanted, but could not discern what.
For sometime, I awaited the spark of love, eager to discover when it would strike. Surely, I thought, surely it would be soon, for so many of my companions had been wed and begun families of their own. I studied each new face I met, wondering, "Will he, will she, be the one?"
But I continued growing older, and I never felt the anticipated "spark.' I asked so many people how they knew it, when the time came, that they were in love. How very often did I receive that same answer: "I just knew."
So still I waited, waited for that moment when I, too, would know.
But it did not come. The years turned like the seasons and all people knew war. Kingdoms and kings rose and fell, and my friends of old who had "known' they were in love were long dead until one Age passed into the next and I realized that I was no longer counted among those who were young.
I sooner identified with those old Elves who seemed destined to remain forever alone, content with their work and knowing quite well their place in the world.
It was a shock to me to realize this truth. I had become old, set in my ways, and had long learned how to live alone.
I quickly, though not easily, accepted that this would be my way.
And it was my way. For a very long time. I saw the passing of yet another Age. I saw, yet again, the hopes of our race -- joined by the race of Men --rise above all else.
And I considered myself to be quite comfortably entrenched in my life here at Imladris.
And so long had I been lonely, and content in that loneliness, that when the spark of love flared within me, I was quite mortified. "Now?' I asked the Valar. "After a generous lifetime of accustoming myself to a solitary living, you tempt me with a longing that shall not be met?'
I was furious.
My body, so long a quiet and obedient thing, suddenly grew restless with a need I had never known and knew not how to control. My soul, so long singular, selfish, and whole, suddenly demanded that it was not whole and must be completed. My heart, so long silent, ardently assured me that all this was true, and that I -- finally -- was in love.
I debated with myself quite endlessly about it. But body, soul, and heart were adamant, and not to be swayed by any reason. My mind, it seemed, stood alone against the assault of love.
"Then,' I asked whatever powers might be listening, "why Glorfindel?' I had known you quite long enough to be surprised at the revelation that I love only you. And angry, too, certain that it was an ironic adoration, certain that because you had never declared your undying love for me that there was no possibility that these feelings -- if that is what one calls this waterfall-intensity of emotion -- would ever be returned.
Denial, bargaining, none of it made any difference, for the spark of love had kindled in me an immortal fire, never to be smothered by the likes of time, logic, or prayer.
Eventually, then, came my acceptance. I accepted that my heart could not be exchanged like a deficient weapon, or dismissed like an inept intern. I accepted that I was gifted with love, but cursed too, for it was a one-sided affair.
Love, as you can see, inspired in me something of a melodramatic air.
Thusly, I began to learn the secrets of love that I had expected to embrace at a much earlier time in my life. And inexperienced though I admit I was, I realized that it was a unique and daring love, possibly quite different from any other. Firstly, I am, to put it simply, ancient. I have seen and known too much to breathe an innocent love. What I feel for you will always be darkened by lust and by all the complex disclosures that life offers us, for before I knew love, I knew death; before I knew the singularity of devotion, I knew the paranoia of betrayal. Before I knew the joy of merely looking upon you, I knew the terror of looking down the end of a blade. And before I knew you, I knew myself; and how many people can truly claim that?
On the other hand, I have learned that love changes a person. You have changed me. I cannot list for you these changes, for I myself do not know them, having only the sudden knowledge that I am utterly different. I will try, despite their vastness. I am different because the free hours formerly spent in quiet and personal study have been otherwise occupied by spending time with you, or thinking about you, or writing the most driveling romantic poetry on Arda that I now keep in an old cargo box beneath my bed. I am different, because I find on occasion that when I should be working, I have fallen to despairing daydreams. I am different because where there was only dignity to be maintained in my presentation, I now take the absurdly tedious care of attempting to enhance my appearance on the chance that you should notice it. I am different because where I once identified the name "Glorfindel' in my everyday discussions as a friend, I must now endure the little leap my heart takes every time I hear your name uttered. I am different because I endeavor to sit near you so that I may gaze that more easily upon your handsome countenance and eavesdrop on your conversations, secretly hoping that you will mention my name and nearly swooning with delight when you do. I am different because I must now endure the constant teasing from a good friend of mine who has divined for himself my feelings for you, an embarrassment from which I will never escape. I am different because my once quiet body demands release, which I give it in the dead of night with your name upon my lips. I am different because I am in love.
So. Though I may be changed, I am still -- I convince myself -- hopeless. Why, then, this? This trite annotation? This hideously self-demoralizing declaration?
I have told you: love has made me old-fashioned, sentimental, and cowardly. Old-fashioned, because I desire not only you, but a true courtship. Trinkets and poems and dancing. Sentimental, because -- as you can see -- I am suddenly overrun by emotion, and nothing I have done has lessened it. Cowardly, because I had planned to confess all of this to you with my words, and not by some shaky scrawl upon scrap bits of paper.
Glorfindel, confound it all, I love you.
Ever Yours, Erestor
Glorfindel's hand dropped to his lap, clutching the letter fiercely. He knew that he must have the silliest smile on his face. He did not care.
He and Erestor were completely different, but he did not care. He had been distracted from life by Erestor for decades, but he did not care. He had been thickheaded enough to wonder why at first and to mope after that and then to submit to idle daydreams, but he did not care now, because now there was love.
Blinking through tears he hadn't known were there, Glorfindel spied a dark splotch against the open doorway. He squeezed the tears out of his eyes to find Erestor standing just beyond the threshold of his room, staring blankly at him.
Glorfindel was stunned. "Thought I'd have to send my guards to bring you here."
Erestor looked determinedly at the floor. "That, originally, was my plan."
Glorfindel couldn't force the ridiculous smile away. "But, you're here."
"Yes," Erestor blurted out quickly, the first overt sign of his nerves.
"Why are you here?"
"Were you really going to send guards?"
"With manacles, if needed," Glorfindel assured him. "I'm not going to let a little thing like crippling pain get in my way." He was still smiling, this ludicrously huge grin. "But you're here."
"Yes." Erestor took a deep breath. So uncharacteristic. "I am determined to overcome my cowardice."
"Is that why you're lurking by the door?"
"I'm not lurking."
"Erestor," Glorfindel purred in a warning voice.
"I love you." Erestor's eyes were wide with shock at his own words.
Silence.
"Just, I just wanted to say that to you." Then, he bolted.
"Guards!"
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