Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 11/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: Questions - and answers?
Beta: Enismirdal


Chapter 11


Glorfindel wondered, considering the circumstances under which 
he and Elrond had been interrupted, if it were possible for 
Cirdan’s arrival to have been more ill-timed or unwelcome. He 
was aware of Elrond drawing a deep breath, which he held for 
several heartbeats before he released it. He could see Gil-galad 
behind Círdan, attempting to appear to be no more than an 
interested observer, and resolved to discuss that act of 
avoidance with him later.

Glorfindel’s impulse to escape was curbed rather less by his 
natural honesty – he was a terrible liar – than by his lack of 
any convenient excuse for leaving. He also hoped he could manage 
to distract Círdan before Elrond decided to respond to the 
criticism of his clothing, which Glorfindel suspected would have 
the effect of turning a lecture into a confrontation. He 
therefore said quietly, “How can I help you, my Lord?”

Círdan took his arm, and indicated that Glorfindel should walk 
with him, gesturing in the general direction of the lake, a 
small body of water closer in size to a large pond, which was 
encircled by a tidy gravel path. Benches had been set around it 
at regular intervals, and it was Círdan’s opinion that it was 
all far too regimented, reflecting the Noldorin love of order 
and control, but there was no denying that the area was 
regularly frequented by much of the Palace’s population.

He was concerned at Gil-galad’s revelation of the growing 
relationship between him and this Elf the Valar had seen fit to 
return from the dead. Kings, to his mind, needed to marry and 
produce heirs, not have affairs of this nature. He intended to 
broach the subject later, very carefully of course. For now, 
there was something else which caused him concern and about 
which he also had strong feelings.

“Glorfindel, his Majesty tells me you are reluctant to accept 
the position that he has offered you. I am certain that you 
realise he has been looking for someone suitable to place at the 
head of his army for quite some time now. I wished to make 
certain you had given his offer your full consideration.” He 
realised that Glorfindel had stopped walking, and did so as 
well, although keeping a hand on the firmly muscled arm. “I can 
assure you, we would not have considered this had we any doubts 
as to your ability. After all, the probability that the Valar 
sent you back for just such a reason is too strong to be 
denied.”

Glorfindel stood listening to this monologue, which was being 
delivered with all the weight of authority, age and experience 
that Círdan could bring to it. He made no attempt to interrupt 
or respond, knowing he was no match, verbally, for the ancient 
Elf. He was normally at ease with Círdan, certainly, but the 
idea of trying to argue with him was too bizarre to entertain.

He happened to be facing Gil, and took the opportunity to watch 
him, something he never tired of doing. He was therefore in a 
position to notice the look of discomfort on his face, and the 
way this hardened into something closer to annoyance at the 
point where Círdan stopped referring to ‘his’ wishes in favour 
of ‘ours’.

He knew Gil-galad avoided confrontations with his foster father, 
claiming it was because of the love and respect he held for him. 
Glorfindel, however, had spent his entire youth woefully failing 
to live up to his father’s expectations, and had both seen and 
heard enough in the short time he had known Gil and seen him 
with his foster father to have formed his own conclusions.

He was so busy studying Gil and wondering if this was the point 
when he would finally contradict Círdan that he completely 
forgot about Elrond, still tightly strung and sensitive after 
finally sharing his memories of a frightening and life altering 
experience. Glorfindel was abruptly reminded by a cool, toneless 
voice that cut through Círdan’s words like a knife.

“Assuming the Valar had anything in mind beyond sowing 
confusion, whatever they intend might still be far in the 
future.”

Elrond had moved while speaking to place a light hand on 
Glorfindel’s free arm. He was carrying himself very erect and 
his face was expressionless. “It may be something as simple as 
passing on his sword skills to someone whose need of them will 
be vital someday. You have no way of knowing this, my Lord, any 
more than I do or Ereinion does. Glorfindel needs to follow his 
own instincts, and if they speak against the position you had in 
mind for him, so be it. It isn’t your choice to make.”

Círdan, predictably short of patience with someone young, 
inexperienced, and clad in yellow silk in the middle of the day, 
snapped, “Your manners are lamentable, young one. Not purely 
your fault of course, but even Maglor should have known to teach 
you to hold your tongue while your betters speak.”

Elrond was quiet for the one moment it took him to confirm that 
Círdan had just insulted the only person who had shown him 
kindness from the time his mother had died until he had been 
placed in Gil-galad’s household. He then let his tongue pick its 
own words

“Indeed, my Lord. And he was also at great pains to teach me how 
to determine who my betters actually are. I would think that, as 
King Turgon’s great-grandson, decisions concerning one of his 
warriors would be more my concern than yours.”

“I think not,” Gil-galad interjected, before Círdan could catch 
breath to respond. “You both seem to be overlooking a small 
detail here. I have been High King since Turgon’s death, 
something I’ll thank you to remember, Elrond. Glorfindel’s 
future is my decision, not yours.”

Glorfindel felt light and disconnected from the growing 
argument. The only thing that registered clearly was Gil’s 
annoyed declaration of control over his life. He shrugged loose 
from both Círdan and Elrond, and turned so he could look 
directly at the King. His temper had always been very slow to 
surface, yet Gil-galad had somehow managed to make him really 
angry twice in as many days. As the target was Gil, he was more 
confident in expressing this anger than he might have been with 
anyone else.

“You are High King, and I owe respect to the title and its 
holder, and you will never have less,” he said, meeting and 
holding the light blue eyes and picking his words carefully. 
“But the king who received my oath of loyalty died the day 
Gondolin fell. I am not property to be disposed of as you or 
anyone else sees fit. I am free to offer my loyalty where I 
will, and I give it willingly to Idril’s grandson.” He turned to 
catch Elrond’s disbelieving stare and, placing left hand to 
forehead, bowed the correct degree. “This Prince of Gondolin can 
decide my future. I leave it in his hands.”

And turning, Gondolin’s golden warrior strode off, leaving them 
to watch his departure in silence, save for Gil-galad’s 
disbelieving mutter of “What the…?”

Eventually Círdan turned to Elrond. “I hope you will not attempt 
to claim an authority which is well beyond both your right and 
your experience…” he began.

“Beyond my right?” Elrond asked sharply. “Really? I had no idea 
I’d been declared illegitimate, my Lord. When did that happen? 
He’s quite right, you know. Ereinion is High King, but Elros and 
I can certainly claim authority over someone who sees himself 
primarily as a citizen of Gondolin.”

“It is a great pity you are so unlike your brother,” Círdan 
snapped. “I am regularly convinced that he is the one who should 
have been numbered amongst the Firstborn.“

Laslech, having considered her options in this sea of raised 
voices, had quietly located herself behind and to the left of 
Elrond. Some implied threat in Círdan’s raised tone made her 
nervous, and she attempted her first serious growl, causing Gil-
galad to snort with laughter. Elrond favoured him with a dark 
look before returning his attention to Círdan.

“Perhaps you need to have a chat with the Valar about that,” he 
said tartly, remembering the silent pavilion and the cool, 
emotionless voice of the Herald telling them to choose. “They 
neglected to state a clear preference.”

----------


Several hours after these events, Gil-galad was alone in his 
workroom, looking with interest and not a little longing at the 
map of the recently established town about which he had 
previously received a report. He had been sufficiently 
interested to request further information and the small 
community had been quick to oblige.

Few people ever realised how much interest he took in these 
matters, or the extent to which he would have enjoyed the 
challenge of overseeing the development of a settlement of this 
type himself. There was no place in his life for such 
adventures, of course. His interest, therefore, had been 
suppressed, but never completely stifled.

A small sound in the general vicinity of the doorway made him 
look up. Elrond, wearing a fairly subdued-looking blue tunic, 
was standing halfway into the room, waiting to draw his 
attention.

“May I speak to you?” his cousin asked, once he saw he’d been 
noticed. Gil-galad nodded, leaning back in his chair and 
stretching thoroughly. If he was honest, a few extra hours‘ 
sleep would have been useful, though he was more than happy with 
the reason he had missed them.

Elrond came over and stood looking down at the map with 
interest. “Where is this?” he asked after a minute, shooting 
Gil-galad an inquiring look. The King traced along the outline 
of the coast with one finger down to the Havens, orientating 
Elrond, who nodded his thanks. They studied the map for a while 
in companionable silence, Gil-galad wordlessly pointing out 
details and getting nods and glances in reply. Eventually, 
however, Elrond straightened up and said quietly, “I need to 
apologise to you. I went too far. I forgot you were the King. I 
spoke to you as my cousin, and I was disrespectful to your 
rank.”

Gil smiled slightly, keeping his eyes on the map. It was an 
error Elrond would never have made even as recently as half a 
year ago. He was finally starting to believe he was safe and in 
a place where he no longer had to watch every word with care.

“I think it’s Círdan to whom you owe the apology,” he suggested. 
“You weren’t directly rude to me, after all, just dismissive, 
which I’m prepared to overlook. And you were at least half right 
about having some kind of hereditary authority over Glorfindel. 
It’s still too soon for him to regard himself as anything other 
than a citizen of Gondolin, after all. You might think twice 
about actually attempting to use it, though.”

Elrond’s face had taken on a stubborn expression. “I am not 
apologising to Círdan,” he said firmly. “He never has a good 
word to say to me or about me, and today it happened once too 
often. He had no business insulting Maglor. He did the best he 
could with us.”

Gil-galad allowed his face to reflect the satisfaction he felt 
on hearing this. He had also felt Círdan’s comment to be 
misplaced; he was a firm believer in loyalty and Maglor had 
raised the twins to the best of his considerable ability.

“I think he was more interested in making a point, Elrond. I 
truly don’t think it was his intention to insult Maglor; had it 
been, I would have said something myself. As you say, he cared 
for you and Elros, and that you were angry on his behalf is good 
and right. Only next time,” he suggested with a quick, 
affectionate smile, “you might consider being angry with a 
little more diplomacy.”

They exchanged glances and Elrond looked away first, giving a 
half nod. “I’ll apologise for being rude, because I should 
respect his age,” he agreed. “But not for what I said.” Gil-
galad decided he lacked the will to pursue matters further, and 
simply hoped the apology went better than he somehow suspected 
it would. Instead he moved on to a subject he had been avoiding 
for as long as possible.

“I was wondering where you’d prefer to be seated tomorrow,” he 
asked. “You can sit with Elros, of course, but it might confuse 
some people. I thought either with my aunt or else next to 
Glorfindel….?”

“Tomorrow?” Elrond had returned his attention to the map and was 
studying it with unexpected interest.

“Your brother’s formal dinner?” Gil-galad reminded him mildly. 
Elrond neglected to look up.

“Oh, that. I wasn’t planning to attend, you can leave me off the 
list. Why have they put the market over here, with less access 
to the road?”

“So that there’s no interference with passing traffic. It’s 
accessible enough, just not intrusive. I’ll be interested to see 
how that idea works. And yes, you are coming. This is a formal 
dinner; you have to be present.”

“Have to?” Elegant brows were raised above cool grey eyes.

Gil-galad’s probable response was interrupted by Glorfindel 
rapping lightly on the doorframe and he greeted the blonde with 
something close to relief. Before the apology he had been 
practicing in his head could be uttered, Glorfindel said, “I 
came to apologise. I was rude beyond belief to you. Of course I 
recognise your authority, it was just that…”

“...just that I acted for all the world as though I owned you, 
and you, quite rightly, put me in my place. We were both at 
fault, but I was more so than you.”

Glorfindel smiled, his look warm and affectionate. “Then we were 
both wrong, we have both apologised, and now we can let it rest, 
if you will?”

Gil-galad’s answer was to reach out and slide an arm lightly 
round the blonde’s waist. “Indeed, let it rest,” he agreed. “I 
have a more pressing argument to engage in.” He turned his 
attention back to Elrond who was more or less ignoring them, 
apparently engrossed in an account of the detailed research into 
likely types of farming to be attempted in the area, which had 
poor soil due to its nearness to the sea.

“There’s no point in ignoring me, cousin. This is far from 
settled and the dinner’s tomorrow, which means we can’t put this 
discussion off any longer. My original plan was for you to be 
seated with Lord Círdan, but I think I’d fear for my digestion. 
Another possibility is for you to sit with the delegation from 
the Second-born…host them for me, perhaps?”

The sensual mouth was set into a straight line, and the long-
lashed eyes stared at him rebelliously. Hosting the delegates 
was to have been Círdan’s task, and was both an honour and a 
responsibility, but Elrond was having none of it. Gil-galad felt 
his temper rising. “Look, these are your choices. You can sit 
with Círdan, you can sit with Glorfindel, you can sit with the 
Men or you can sit with my aunt.”

Glorfindel, who had heard the first part of the conversation 
before entering the room, and was following the one-sided 
exchange in silence, interrupted quietly, meeting Elrond’s eyes 
and speaking directly to him.

“Would you consider sitting with me? It would help me if you 
did. You know I’m still not comfortable surrounded by strangers. 
And you can’t decline to attend,” he added firmly, forestalling 
the comment he could see being developed for his benefit. “Your 
brother deserves better than for you to insult him and treat a 
dinner in his honour as beneath you.”

----------


Convincing Elrond had gone surprisingly well, Glorfindel mused 
to himself later as he strolled through the carefully cultivated 
rose garden. Roses disliked the soil and setting of this part of 
Lindon but, coaxed by Elves who had a deep love for and 
understanding of the fragrant flowers, they had begun to thrive.

Knowing perhaps better than Gil-galad the intensity of feeling 
involved in the matter of Elros’ departure and all things 
connected with it, he had used the simple approach of appealing 
to Elrond’s better nature which, despite rumour, really did 
exist. The Half-elf was well aware of Glorfindel’s difficulties 
with being on public display, his extreme discomfort at having 
to interact with strangers.

Finally it was agreed that together they would host the guests 
from the delegation of the Second-born, which would be an 
uncomfortable business for the blonde, but he understood the art 
of compromise as practiced by Gil-galad, and accepted his part 
in it.

After Elrond had left, Gil had congratulated him on a job well 
done, in between a very thorough attempt to kiss and make up 
which was not strictly necessary but still very nice indeed. So 
nice, in fact, that it had necessitated the closing of the door 
against the world. After that, the chance of discovery having 
been reduced, fingers that grew more fevered by the moment undid 
buttons and fastenings, and divested bodies of various items of 
clothing in a clutter upon the floor, making a trail that led 
inexorably to the deep window seat.

Glorfindel had made a discovery. Gil had the power to simply 
make his mind stop working. He would be talking and following a 
line of thought and suddenly Gil’s mouth would be at his throat, 
Gil’s tongue would be caressing his ear, stroking slowly and 
sensuously from lobe to tip, and he would forget what he had 
been meaning to say, words halted, lost all meaning, and the 
only things that mattered were what that mouth was going to do 
next, and how soon it would take Gil’s large, sensitive and very 
talented hands to follow. In his clearer moments he wondered if 
this was the stuff of which addiction was made.

This time was no different. Sweet kisses became something 
stronger, more demanding. The lips that had captured his own 
with such tenderness became hungry, insistent, as they roved 
down his neck. They eventually settled where the muscle at the 
joint of neck to shoulder could be nipped sharply before being 
sucked hard enough to leave a dark purple mark, by no means the 
only one to be found colouring his fair skin.

Glorfindel’s rather nice tunic and the shirt of fine linen had 
been discarded somewhere near the door, and Gil knelt on the 
seat, his hands at the blonde’s waist, holding him steady. He 
eagerly kissed a trail that led very quickly from the base of 
the smooth throat to a hardening nipple, which he drew into his 
mouth eagerly, his tongue lapping it softly in an action closer 
to a kiss than the usual suckling motion. Glorfindel’s head fell 
back and he reached out a hand to Gil’s thick, dark hair, 
sinking his fingers into the softness, while his breathing grew 
shallow and his eyes slowly closed.

The first rose tinted nipple was released, the other offered the 
same caress of tongue and lips, warm wetness sending fire 
stroking to the source of all pleasure. Glorfindel groaned and, 
almost without thought, moved one hand down to give some ease to 
the sudden hardness at his groin. Gil sucked sharply, creating a 
sensation somewhere on the border between pleasure and pain, and 
then released him for long enough to whisper, “Go on, touch 
yourself, let me watch you.”

Glorfindel found he was being watched by intense blue eyes, 
within which a pale flame burned. He held Gil’s gaze, directing 
in downwards to focus on the movement of his hand while he eased 
himself back slowly till he was lying on the seat, one leg drawn 
up, the other flat but bent at the knee. Gil leaned over him, 
alternating between the stone hard, ruby nipples, sucking 
sharply, licking, teasing, while all the time watching, 
fascinated.

Glorfindel unfastened his leggings with one hand, the other 
remaining tangled lightly in Gil’s hair, and carefully drew 
aside cloth to reveal that his cock was, even at this early 
stage in their lovemaking, darkened and erect. He took himself 
in hand and began to stroke while rubbing his thumb lightly over 
the slit, spreading the fluid he found there over the head and 
round the rim, and all the time continuing the steady motion, up 
and down .His eyes closed again and he began to moan softly and 
move his hips lightly in time to the rhythm he had set.

Gil had stopped all pretense of participating at this stage and 
had gone to kneel on the floor next to the seat, his head 
against Glorfindel’s chest, watching, breathing in time with the 
soft moans. The fact that Glorfindel was turning into a 
wonderfully uninhibited lover, taking joy in their shared 
pleasure, was one of the many things about him that Gil-galad 
found irresistible. Eventually, however, he could remain a 
spectator no more.

“Waited long enough,” he muttered, and picked up the little 
container of rosemary-scented oil, one of a selection which he 
kept to use in the small burner on the corner of his desk when 
he was having a long day and felt his mood needed lifting. He 
was a little surprised at having kept the presence of mind to 
retrieve it before crossing the room. Kneeling up, he unfastened 
his leggings, his eyes never leaving Glorfindel’s hand, 
following the almost languid action of his thumb over the 
engorged head, teasing first at the slit, then around the 
underside of the rim, while his hand remained wrapped around his 
erection, holding it in a firm grasp.

Gil poured the oil into his hand, and then proceeded to apply it 
to his penis, his hand gripping a little tighter than needed, 
his breath hissing at each down stroke. When he was ready, he 
rose and moved to the end of the seat, and proceeded to tug 
Glorfindel’s leggings down, pausing to remove his boots at the 
last minute before dragging the clothing off to follow them onto 
the floor.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he murmured, running his hands firmly 
up the backs of Glorfindel’s thighs to the sensitive area behind 
the knees as he smoothly drew the blonde’s legs up and over his 
shoulders. Glorfindel cooperated, crossing his ankles lightly 
behind Gil’s neck and drawing his knees up towards his chest.

Gil watched for a moment longer as Glorfindel continued to 
fondle himself, then he moved his hands down, clasping firm 
buttocks, lifting, spreading and then thrusting forward so that 
the head of his erection just barely penetrated the tight warmth 
that awaited it.

He remained motionless, looking at the sight beneath him. The 
blonde was completely naked now, his hair a disheveled tangle 
over face and chest. His nipples were dark and still damp, his 
pale honey skin had the hint of a sheen of moisture to it, his 
cock was slick with pre cum. Glorfindel opened deep blue eyes 
and looked at him in an unfocused manner, then with a strange, 
tense smile asked huskily, “What are you waiting for?”

Gil-galad needed no further encouragement; he thrust forward 
slowly, carefully, all the way to the hilt. Glorfindel jerked up 
to meet him, growling in need. “Concentrate on how this feels,” 
Gil grated, drawing back slowly then thrusting deep and hard. 
“Focus on how it feels to have me inside you.”

Glorfindel cried out inarticulately and blindly clasped Gil’s 
arm with his free hand, tightening his fingers hard enough to 
leave bruises, and began to move to the pace he was set, giving 
himself over completely to desire.

Completion was swift. Glorfindel was highly sensitive and 
responsive, and it took no more than two dozen hard but well 
aimed thrusts to drive him over the edge, crying out and arching 
his back violently, his face contorting and his head tossing 
from side to side. The combination of the contractions around 
his shaft and the sight of the vision of erotic passion he was 
impaling caused Gil-galad to find his release deep within his 
lover almost immediately afterwards.

----------


Glorfindel made his way through the hallways of the public 
section of the Palace, fresh from a brief meeting with Erestor, 
the junior military advisor with the interesting past and the 
dryly ironic sense of humour. They had discussed the level of 
expertise Glorfindel was looking for in his potential students, 
and had considered several possible venues for the classes. As a 
rule, no one waylaid this legend made flesh at those times when 
he walked with purpose, a look of thoughtful distraction on his 
face. This time proved to be different.

“Glorfindel. Cousin. How is it that you are alive?"

The blunt question should have been unacceptable, even though 
the voice that uttered it was sweet and low, with just the 
slightest hint of amusement. Because everyone else went to great 
lengths to avoid the subject, however, Glorfindel found the 
directness refreshing if startling. Turning, he found himself 
looking into eyes the blue-green colour of a sunlit sea, set in 
a grave, high-cheekboned face. The first thing anyone noticed, 
however, was the hair, which was golden as his own, and threaded 
with strands of pure silver. Despite an attempt to look 
offended, he found he was smiling broadly.

“Nerwen, only you would phrase it quite like that," he told her 
with a chuckle, reaching out to hug Finarfin's daughter, the 
flame of bright defiance and courage who, overshadowing her 
brothers, had been amongst the leaders of the rebellion, arguing 
with Fëanor, rejecting without reservation the warning to return 
home, crossing the Ice with a grim, determined air that was the 
best lesson in leading by example that he had ever seen.

Glorfindel, distant kin to this spirit of adamant, had admired 
her since childhood. She was one of the few people with whom he 
had always been at ease, and discovering that this had not 
changed was almost like a homecoming to him. However, he swiftly 
realised that things were not quite as they had been before. 
Galadriel was tall and had always been as strong and as slender 
as a young birch tree, but he became aware that something had 
changed.

He released her and stepped back to look at her properly for the 
first time. The once reed slim form was now delightfully swollen 
in what, to his inexperienced eye, seemed to be the mid stages 
of child bearing. There had been whispers, of course, and veiled 
comments, but nothing had been said to him directly, and the 
matter had apparently escaped Gil-galad’s memory. Glorfindel 
paused, even less certain than usual of the right thing to say. 
A low chuckle rescued him.

"Yes, I'm pregnant. Yes, of course it's his - we're formally 
bonded, after all - so, yes, it will be half Sindarin."

Glorfindel coloured slightly at her knowing reference to the 
manner in which her life was discussed, the stories of how 
Finarfin’s daughter had, while in Menegroth, met and eventually 
bonded with a Sinda, kin to Elu Thingol, true, but nonetheless, 
not one of their own, and was moving from place to place in his 
wake, as rootless as any elleth of the Wandering Companies.

Nothing was said too loudly. She was the High King’s aunt after 
all, and Glorfindel had pretended to either not hear or else not 
understand the careful jokes, though he could have explained 
that it was more than likely to be Nerwen’s restless spirit that 
carried them forward, in her search for somewhere to call her 
own.

“People gossip,” he said finally, stating a self evident truth. 
He smiled at her, taking in the pale green robe, the darker 
over-tunic, the edge embroidered with yellow flowers, the 
sparkle in her eyes, the slight roundness to her cheeks. “You 
look well enough, though, so let them get on with it.”

She burst out laughing. “Cousin, you’ve changed. And for the 
better. Yes indeed, let them. And let us walk and talk and 
compare our lives. You, I think, have a tale to tell. And Nerwen 
was my name amongst my kin,” she added. “Most now call me 
Galadriel.”

----------


Their walk took them outside to the corner of the garden 
Glorfindel had favoured since he had arrived in Lindon, the same 
spot where he had first met Gil-galad. They settled on the bench 
near the little fountain and spent a pleasant hour catching up 
on the events in one another’s lives, although Galadriel did the 
majority of the talking as she had somewhat more news to share.

She explained that she and her mate – Celeborn, formerly of 
Doriath – were in Lindon for a short time only, to await the 
birth of their child and to make decisions about the course of 
their future. They were not resident in the Palace, choosing, 
instead, to have their own small establishment close enough to 
the shoreline for them to be lulled to sleep each night by the 
sounds of the waves. She was vague about their possible plans, 
saying only that she would be remaining in Middle-earth.

The discussion about Glorfindel's ‘misadventure’, as she chose 
to call it, was more animated.

“What do you mean, it caught your hair? What were you doing 
fighting a Balrog with your hair flying loose like something out 
of a saga?” she asked, bemused, reaching up a hand to touch the 
offending hair lightly.

“It was a festival,” he explained with a helpless laugh, feeling 
his cheeks flushing. “I had no idea that I would be fighting for 
my life, for the lives of others. Once it began there was barely 
time to seek armour and weapons, and many of us had no time even 
for that. I was fortunate to be near home. I never gave my hair 
a thought…”

She gave him a sideways glance, then put her hand on his 
shoulder in apology. “Things happen for their own good reason,” 
she said in a more gentle tone. “You fought as you did, perhaps 
even died as you did, to preserve the life of Eärendil, and he 
in his turn brought help out of the West to light the darkness 
for us…”

Her voice trailed off and she raised an eyebrow as Glorfindel 
sighed and nodded, then tilted his head back to look up into a 
tree where a nest containing three fledglings could be seen.

“I died to save a child who in his turn fathered children,“ he 
agreed. “One of those children said something very like this to 
me not so long ago. And who knows, perhaps you’re both right. 
Perhaps that was why I had to die. It doesn’t help with the 
question of why the Valar sent me back though. “

They sat listening to the birds and the soft, far-off sounds of 
voices. Galadriel was at ease with silence. She sat with half 
closed eyes, her hands linked lightly across the curve of her 
belly, her concentration apparently elsewhere. She was probably 
listening to the trees talk, Glorfindel though, more than half 
seriously. She had spent time with Yavanna in her youth and 
since then had given long years to learning as much as Melian 
had been prepared to teach. As he watched, she took a deep 
breath, smiling slightly to herself, then slanted him a look 
under unexpectedly dark lashes.

“They measure time differently to us, my dear,” she told him. 
“The reason may come to pass this week, next year, an age from 
now. There is no way to know. But your path will be guided, 
things will be put in your way to prompt you, never fear. They 
would hardly go to so much trouble simply to leave you to your 
own devices.”

Trying to ignore the cynical tone, alarmingly similar to 
Elrond’s, he confided in her the fear that came and whispered to 
him in the dark, or shadowed him on those quiet days when he 
felt lost and purposeless. Almost anytime, in fact, when he 
wasn’t in Gil’s company.

“What if my purpose is to die?” he asked her. “What if they just 
sent me back to die again? Sometimes I feel almost set apart, 
almost as though my time here will be too short to make it worth 
anyone’s while to get close to me.”

Galadriel was quiet for so long he thought she had decided not 
to answer but when she finally spoke he heard the weight of 
consideration in her voice, and something else, a thread of 
knowing that for some reason traced ice down his spine.

“I believe you were sent back to live,” she said quietly. “Why 
else would they go to such trouble? Not now, but in a time to 
come, your past experiences will stand you in good stead when 
you are called on to protect the future. For the present, do 
what seems best and most fulfilling, your destiny will come to 
find you in its own time. If you simply must seek answers, look 
for symmetry,” she added. “The Shining Ones enjoy it. You died 
for Eärendil, perhaps you live for his son? I have heard more 
than enough about Elwing’s younger son to think he may be in 
sore need of your protection over time. Or perhaps there is 
something else, someone else, who can tell? Their ways are – 
intricate.”

He returned her look with one he hoped was at least as steady. 
“Was that why you decided to remain? Your lack of ease with the 
Valar?”

Galadriel snorted in a most unladylike manner, putting 
Glorfindel in mind of her uncle Fingolfin, to whom she had been 
as close as a daughter. “Decide? My dear, there was no deciding 
to be done. I was told that my actions had been unacceptable and 
that my time of testing and cleansing lay still long in the 
future. Not till I pass this unknown test will I be allowed to 
leave here. I am an exile in the true sense.”

At his exclamation of sympathy she shook her head briskly. 
“Their Herald, one of the more unpleasant of his kind that I 
have ever seen, told me this and seemed quite put out when I 
laughed. I have no need of their forgiveness, nor do I need to 
be summoned home like a house pet that has played outdoors for 
longer than expected and is now to be returned to its cage. “

“Galadriel,” he breathed in horror. Somehow she made him far 
more nervous than Elrond had. Elrond had never seen the Western 
Shore, nor those who walked upon it. Nerwen – the new name would 
take time – certainly had. She swung round to face him, her eyes 
suddenly blazing.

“They will not allow me back because I will not be caged, and 
they fear that in me and the effect it might have on others. 
They have seen rebellion once, after all,” she hissed. “It is 
enough that I am bound by the conventions and short sighted 
rules that make up the Code of the Noldor, but at least I will 
survive that without the indignity of a cage. I am content to 
remain here for eternity if needs be.”

It was only over dinner that Glorfindel finally pieced together 
the meaning behind that uncharacteristic outburst. Noldorin 
conventions and law gave females limited rights of inheritance, 
especially where the royal succession was concerned. Were that 
not so, Galadriel, daughter of Finarfin, would have sat in 
Lindon as High Queen of the Noldor in Middle-earth.

* * * * *


Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 12/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: Decisions in the dark.
Beta: Enismirdal


Chapter 12


“I talked to Círdan.”

Elros entered the darkening room and kicked the door shut, an 
act signifying either frustration or tiredness. He dropped a 
couple of half-rolled maps onto a chair as he passed it, heading 
towards the table on which a wine jug and a pair of goblets 
normally stood, to find the jug had been replaced by a slender 
miruvor jar instead. He nodded without questioning the 
substitution and poured an amount of the clear liquid into one 
of the small cups laid out beside it.

After taking two or three sips he turned his attention to his 
brother, who was sitting near the window, Laslech on the floor 
at his feet. Elros gave the dog a concerned look. Amongst all 
the other final choices he was attempting to deal with, he would 
have to make time to decide her future, too.

“I told him it might make everyone’s life a lot easier if he 
left things like your manners and your interesting dress sense 
for Gil-galad to deal with. After all, he is ultimately 
responsible for you. You might want to watch your tongue though, 
it makes it harder for Gil to sympathise if he has to keep 
excusing you….”

“He insulted Maglor,” Elrond interrupted evenly. “He said we 
were badly raised. I don’t have to accept that. Even Ereinion 
said he went too far.”

Elros was quiet. He would have thought twice about defending 
Maglor, but Elrond’s loyalty was a knife-edged flame that put 
his own ambivalence to shame. Maglor had stood between them and 
death on a number of occasions, and Elrond certainly would not 
be the one to forget it. He tiredly wondered what else Círdan 
had not seen fit to mention, then turned to his primary concern. 
“Elrond, about Glorfindel…?” he asked, not even sure how to word 
the query.

Elrond finally turned to look at him, and favoured him with a 
slightly satisfied smile. “Oh, that. That wasn’t me, that was 
all Ereinion’s fault.”

Elros gave him the expected look of doubt verging on disbelief. 
“I was told you encouraged Glorfindel into doing something – 
what was the word? – ill-conceived. Or is that two words?”

“Hyphenated,” Elrond responded. “And I didn’t do anything of the 
sort. Cirdan and I were having a…discussion about whether he had 
the right to tell Glori what to do. I made the point that I was 
Turgon’s heir, well, one of them anyway, so Ereinion was 
inspired to add his five words, which were that, as High King, 
he would decide Glori’s future.”

Elrond paused for effect, his eyes sparkling with mischief, then 
went on. “It’s outside my experience, but I’d think it a bad 
idea to remind your new lover he has to answer to you outside of 
the bedroom as well. Glori didn’t take too well to it. He 
interrupted us, which he never does, told Ereinion he was 
actually free to swear allegiance where he chose, and then chose 
me. I think,” he added, studying his fingernails judiciously, “I 
think Ereinion made him very angry.”

Elros dropped down into the opposite chair, and sipped his 
drink. “I always manage to miss all the excitement,” he 
remarked, before raising a questioning brow as he finally took 
in his brother’s appearance.

Elrond was wearing scarlet, so dark it was almost black, in the 
form of leggings and a softly draping overtunic, under which he 
wore a white shirt made of some filmy fabric. His waist length 
hair was caught back from his face with a pair of ruby-studded 
mithril clasps, and it tumbled and flowed, fine, sparkling and 
unconfined, over his shoulders and down his back.

“I didn’t know you had been invited this evening,” Elros 
observed, frowning slightly. “I wonder if that’s quite the right 
hairstyle, though? I know it’s meant to be informal, but...”

“Invited?” Elrond gave him an expressionless look that was 
highly expressive. “For some reason Ereinion never invites me 
anywhere if he has the choice.”

“Can’t imagine why not,” Elros responded blandly, sounding more 
than a little like their royal cousin.

Elrond shot a glance at his brother out of the corner of his 
eye. Elros looked tired, however, and whatever retort had been 
on his tongue died unuttered. Instead, he asked, “Invited where, 
by the way?”

“Gil invited my new councillors to spend an hour or two with us, 
just getting acquainted. We’re just going to drink a little 
wine, exchange a few pleasantries…”

Elrond nodded. “No, I wouldn’t expect to be on the guest list 
for something like that, luckily. It sounds dreadful. Shouldn’t 
you be getting ready, then? I assume it’s pre-dinner?”

Elros nodded, taking another sip of the potent contents of the 
cup. “Just want to finish this, clear my head of the remnants of 
the day, then I’ll change and leave.” He gazed out at the 
darkening garden, thought for a moment, then turned his 
attention back to his brother.

“Was there some reason you wanted me to hurry?” he asked mildly. 
The black haired Elf, whom he vaguely remembered from the time 
before Lindon, had not yet arrived in the garden, but would 
almost certainly appear within the next few minutes. Elrond 
looked suitably blank, confirming his suspicions. Confusion 
would have been more convincing, though he decided not to 
mention this.

He got up, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, 
trying to loosen the tightly knotted braids a little, and 
favoured his twin with a light kick as he passed. “Made peace 
with him, did you?” he asked, placing the empty cup on the 
table.

“Have no idea what you mean,” Elrond retorted, though a grin 
tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Medium height, black hair, memorable backside…?”

“Actually, I hadn’t really noticed the backside,” Elrond 
interrupted. “I just enjoy talking to him, not ogling his body. 
I’ll remember to look.”

“You do that,” Elros agreed, turning quickly and leaving the 
room before Elrond noticed the sudden rush of moisture to his 
eyes. He would never see the outcome of this relationship, if 
there was one. There would be letters, of course, but not his 
twin’s unpredictable response to questions like these, nor the 
opportunity to estimate his mood and intentions by his choice in 
clothing, the way he wore his hair…..

He went into his room, shut the door, and leaned back against it 
with his eyes closed against the tears. Not for the first time, 
he stood alone and cursed the masters of their fate softly and 
fluently, using words he had learned from the hardened Elves who 
had followed Maedhros in his other life, in the time before the 
pavilion on the beach.

----------


The small reception hall close to the main entrance of the 
Palace was a plain, drafty room with long windows which looked 
out onto a grass covered courtyard. It was simply furnished, 
having little to recommend it other than a large fireplace and, 
owing to its central position, was normally used for quick, 
informal gatherings.

On this occasion, however, it had been transformed. Heavy drapes 
were drawn against the chill wind which had resumed howling 
after a day’s pause, and brightly coloured rugs, imported from 
the East coast, were strewn across the floor. Informal seating, 
arranged to best encourage light conversation, had been placed 
within reach of the fire’s warmth. Earlier, unobtrusive servants 
had passed back and forth with wine and selections of pastries 
and small, candied delicacies. The room was empty now, save for 
a large, dark haired Elf who was leaning back in a chair, wine 
cup in hand, gazing into the fire.

The assembled company had been an unlikely combination of Elves, 
Men, and a single Half-elf, everyone attempting to look and 
sound at their ease, most of them failing quite dismally. They 
had sat talking and smiling and longing for the dinner hour and 
freedom.

The Men were those who had been selected, after much debate 
amongst the Second-born, to be the councillors who would 
accompany and advise the new King of Númenor. The Elves were 
represented by Círdan, Gil-galad, three of his senior advisors – 
and Glorfindel, whom Gil-galad had insisted attend. The golden 
warrior, he declared expansively over lunch, needed to expose 
himself to as many new experiences and people as were made 
available to him by his presence in Lindon. He should regard it 
as an aid towards deciding his future.

At Glorfindel’s look of pure horror he had grinned cheerfully, 
saying, “You need to have more faith in yourself than that. I’ll 
be there, you’ll be fine. Just sip some wine, look devastatingly 
attractive, and smile.”

The Half-elven representative and ostensive reason for this 
gathering, Elros, son of Eärendil, had moved with trained ease 
from one guest to another, sitting sometimes to talk a while, 
the friendly, personable smile on his face belying the tension 
that could be discerned in his eyes. The Elves and Men were 
strangers to one another, the High King was present, the Men, in 
some instances, had barely met, and he was expected to be the 
mortar to bind them all together.

All told it had been an interminable few hours for all 
concerned.

The guests, both Elves and Men, had long since departed for 
dinner and their quarters, seeking rest in preparation for what 
was likely to be a late night on the morrow. Gil-galad, however, 
after a light dinner, had found himself restless and unable to 
settle, and decided to go for a walk. On his way to the main 
entrance he paused at the door to the reception room where he 
had earlier helped Elros entertain his guests. He found it was 
currently in the process of being returned to order, all traces 
of previous social activity, in the form of cups and plates, 
were being removed, along with the extra chairs.

A sudden desire for solitude struck him, something not afforded 
by his private apartments where he was always ‘at home’ and 
available to his councillors, Glorfindel and several relatives 
as a matter of course. On a whim he instructed that the fire be 
built up and that one of the wine flagons be left. He was 
surprised to discover that it was still full. After the servants 
had finished their work and departed, he settled in a chair 
close to the fire, where he sat watching the flames as he sipped 
his wine and listened to the rising wind and let his thoughts 
roam free.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^


Fire put him in mind of Glorfindel, who had gone off into the 
cold to check on his horse. Gil had seen him sit and gaze into 
the heart of a blaze in similar manner – like yet unlike, as 
there seemed to be an air of quiet determination about him at 
such times. He was learning not to be afraid of fire, Elrond had 
told him, displaying barely concealed amazement that the 
question had even needed to be asked.

The reasons that drew him to Glorfindel with a strength lacking 
in previous attachments were complex. There was, obviously, that 
blonde beauty and warm nature, but, less apparently, there was 
the echo of familiarity, a sense that here was another child of 
privilege who knew how it felt to lack self belief. The contrast 
between them lay in their responses, in the opposing faces they 
showed to the world, yet it was the shy, tentative Glorfindel 
who had responded to affection with warmth and openness, 
enticing Gil-galad to join him, return caring with tenderness.

Kingship had found him far too young, he mused, draining the cup 
and reaching down to refill it. He had barely reached his 
majority when Gondolin fell. The crown had meant and continued 
to mean fighting, and before he was anything else Gil-galad, 
Orodreth’s son, was a warrior, bred for it, trained to it from 
earliest youth. On the day when word came that the Hidden City 
had, indeed, been found and had fallen and he was the last hope 
of his family, he had understood that he no longer fought for 
the warriors under him, or the haven where he lived, but for 
everyone.

The pressure of being responsible for holding all this together 
- the remnant of the Exiles, the refugees from doomed 
settlements, everyone who looked to him for leadership, for 
strength, was at times all but overwhelming. However, he soon 
discovered that opportunities to ease his tensions, warm his 
bed, which had been few and far between under Círdan’s strict 
rules and control, abounded for a young and highly attractive 
monarch who appeared friendly, outgoing, and immensely likable.

If he looked deep enough into the fire he could almost see them, 
faces, bodies, entering and leaving his life, almost 
interchangeable. He indulged himself discreetly when time and 
circumstance allowed. There was no sense of commitment; his 
lovers amused his leisure, kept him calm and focused, yet they 
had no hold on his soul. They were, quite literally, out of 
sight, out of mind.

He drank absently, his thoughts making tenuous links, sliding 
from topic to topic, always returning to Glorfindel, he of the 
golden hair and clear blue eyes, young-seeming and somehow 
innocent despite his years. Glorfindel of the lean, muscular 
body, the sweet mouth. Glorfindel, the hero who had fought at 
the Nirnaeth Arnoediad when he, Gil, had still been a child. 
Fighting in a battle where another King had fallen, another been 
made.

The shifting of a log in the fireplace brought Gil-galad back to 
the moment and he leaned forward, resisting a wave of giddiness, 
and used the poker to rearrange the wood more productively. He 
noticed the goblet was almost empty again and wondered for a 
moment if he had had enough, then, shrugging, took the 
opportunity to fill it before resuming his contemplation of the 
dancing flames.

He never allowed anyone too close, of course. No one saw the 
royal orphan, left to walk as best he could in the footprints of 
the larger than life heroes who had worn the crown before him, 
and trying to hide his feelings of inferiority and inadequacy 
behind a veneer of straightforward common sense and bland good 
humour. He wanted, more than anything, to be a good King, the 
King that, after all this blood and pain, people deserved, but 
he had scant faith in his ability.

He hid, knowing his responsibilities, knowing the terrible 
mistakes that had been committed before, knowing it was up to 
him to see they were never repeated. Determined that no one 
would discover how horribly afraid he was that he would fail, as 
Turgon, Fingon and Fingolfin all in their turn had failed. He 
repeated their names aloud and, because he was alone, raised his 
cup to them, toasting them in red wine and firelight, those 
great ones whom he had been asked to excel.

His thoughts wandered back obliquely to shining blonde hair, 
hanging like a cloak about him as a warm mouth kissed a path 
down his chest, and a low though light voice murmured to him, 
telling him what no other had before, that he was beautiful, his 
body perfect, but he drew back from this image and instead tried 
to imagine surrendering emotionally to the owner of that voice, 
that mouth.

He wondered how it would feel, sharing the secrets of his heart, 
admitting to his loneliness as a child, his conviction that he 
would never make half the King his predecessors had, despite 
their uniform untimely ending. Even more, could he reach down 
more deeply still, confide his resistance to the idea of a match 
that would produce the much needed heir? A reluctance that went 
to the very core of who he was – not the King, not the warrior, 
not the advisor or decision maker, himself, Ereinion.

He refilled the cup with an unsteady hand, noting with surprise 
that the flagon was almost empty and that he was probably drunk. 
Well, it was a rare enough event, he decided. He settled back in 
the chair, returned his by now less than focused gaze to the 
fire, and attempted to pursue his line of thought further.

Being alone was a situation of long familiarity. The desire for 
a confidante was completely at odds with an upbringing that had 
refused him the right to weakness, to error. Furthermore he had 
an uneasy certainty that to say the word would make it so, that 
to admit to his lack would make it real and binding, not just on 
him but upon all those to whom he was responsible. Therefore, in 
the ways that mattered, he had long since chosen to walk alone.

He wondered how being alone would affect Elrond when Elros left 
for Númenor, a choice made for reasons known only to his cousins 
and the Valar. But then Elrond, unlike him, would have 
Glorfindel – what did he call him? Glori? Hazily, he considered 
Glorfindel, who needed closeness as plants needed water and 
sunlight. If he could not permit himself to supply the required 
closeness, would Glorfindel not seek it where he could? 
Unbidden, Elrond’s face, full-lipped, grey-eyed, erotically 
enticing, swam before his eyes.

To that there was no answer, simply another question. Yes, the 
sex was incredible, but could he accept this golden gift waiting 
to be cherished and savoured, whose fire could, if allowed, warm 
him and light the hidden places of his heart? Dare he allow the 
proffered love to soothe the hurt of loss, hold the frightened 
child within close, stand, brave and glowing, a shield against 
the dark, be his courage, fight monsters for him – allow him to 
be weak? Draining his cup, he wondered if it were possible for a 
King’s life to be more than duty and sacrifice. Círdan, he 
decided, nodding his head conclusively, would certainly never 
agree with that.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^


Elrond waited at least ten minutes before leaving his rooms, 
moving with what he hoped was easy nonchalance. Laslech followed 
him out, looking with deep suspicion at the darkening garden. 
The wind had risen again, and she found the sounds of rattling 
shutters and thrashing branches disquieting. She was accustomed 
to Erestor’s presence and the morning’s misadventure had taught 
her to let him alone until he was finished. She went, instead, 
to lie under the tree where Elrond often sat to read.

Faced with the problem of controlling unbound hair in the 
worsening weather, Elrond chose the shelter of a small thicket 
of lavender, regretting the vanity that had made him leave his 
hair loose on this wind tossed night. He resisted the temptation 
to hold onto it, trying to preserve some dignity and 
sophistication, but he doubted that wild and unruly looked 
particularly desirable either.

Erestor’s preparation for his nightly routine had been less 
thorough than usual – no centering and balancing, merely a 
clearing of the mind, a few deep breaths and a vague dedication 
of his time to Lord Oromë before beginning the slow, familiar 
poses. From the corner of an eye he had seen the door open, 
followed by movement on the edge of his vision which drew his 
attention to a sight that all but made him lose track of the 
well-rehearsed sequence.

Elrond was wearing something dark and enticingly loose, and his 
hair, web-fine, night-dark, was being lifted and tossed around 
him by the wind like tendrils of smoke. Erestor pivoted on one 
heel to watch him make his way to one of the more sheltered 
corners and sink down gracefully, half obscured by waving 
foliage.

“Good evening, Elrond,” he ventured once he was fairly certain 
his voice would work. “Your day went well, I hope?” Abandoning 
the normal flow of the exercise, he found and held a pose that 
permitted him to face the fey-looking creature seated amidst the 
lavender, resembling more a forest Elf than the scion of Kings.

Elrond gave him a half smile, his eyes glinting in the gathering 
dusk. “Well enough, I suppose. I met my brother’s new 
councillors when they arrived. That was quite interesting.” At 
Erestor’s raised brow, offered while he moved smoothly up and 
round in a graceful swirl of black hair before lunging at an 
unseen centre, he continued, “I had never met Men in a group 
before. I thought they would be different to us but they weren’t 
really.” He paused and thought a moment. “They talk less than we 
do, perhaps.”

Erestor, who had spent time in more mortal settlements than he 
could remember during his years of gathering information for his 
company, to be passed to either the King or Maedhros, sometimes 
both, smiled slightly. He had never thought of Men as being more 
restrained than Elves before.

“There’s a dinner tomorrow, isn’t there?” He glanced over as he 
asked this, to be confronted by a glimpse of long, pale throat 
as the Half-elf tossed his hair back out of his face. There was 
a flash of jeweled clasps half hidden amidst the dark mass and 
they glinted and sparkled in the remaining light. Erestor tried 
not to stare.

“Dinner, yes,” Elrond said after a momentary hesitation. “It’s 
going to be long and boring, but Ereinion’s set on giving Elros 
a good farewell. Glorfindel and I will be sitting with the Men, 
apparently.”

Erestor made some vague sound of acknowledgement as he bypassed 
approximately a third of his usual routine in an effort, for 
probably the first time since he had learnt it, to get it 
finished and out of the way. He noted, coming up from a backward 
bend that had his hair brushing the ground, that Elrond had 
straightened up and was watching him with the same intensity he 
had been trying to conceal in his own covert glances. Their eyes 
met for a moment, and the connection that had been there in the 
morning returned, with increased intensity.

Ignoring the protest of his back and upper thighs, Erestor 
repeated the motion, increasing the arch so that his head all 
but touched the ground. Straightening, he held the final posture 
for a good five heartbeats less than required before pressing 
his hands together at chest height, palms inward and sinking 
slowly to the ground in an attitude of kneeling rest.

Elrond, sitting with his arms wrapped loosely round his drawn up 
knees, surveyed him with amused curiosity. “Where’s the rest of 
it?” he asked, the wind catching at his musical voice, making 
him sound further off than he was, for Erestor had deliberately 
come to rest close to the lavender thicket.

Erestor bit back delighted laughter. So, despite appearing to 
ignore him, the Princeling had been watching well enough to have 
learned his routine. “It’s been a long day,” he offered, still 
kneeling as he reached up to release his hair from the knot that 
held it back from his face. He smiled into the grey eyes. “And 
the company offered is more to my taste than a routine that I’ve 
repeated twice daily for most of my adult life.”

“You were born into one of the Companies then?” Elrond asked 
him, curious. “I remember seeing you, of course. Elros mentioned 
he had an idea you answered to Gildor.”

“Not born, no,” Erestor answered, his fingers busy braiding 
hair. “I came from Nargothrond originally. After it fell I 
joined one of the Companies. I had training as a scout and they 
thought I could be useful. My family died in the assault, I had 
nowhere else to go…”

Elrond, who had lived his entire life thus far surrounded by 
similar stories of destruction and relocation, nodded. He took a 
deep breath, trying to settle the flutter of nervous excitement 
in his stomach, and moved closer to Erestor, saying in a 
slightly breathless voice, “Can I help you with your hair? I 
should have knotted mine – the wind grows wilder by the minute.” 
He didn’t wait for a response, reaching out instead to carefully 
separate an ebony tress into three strands which he began 
braiding.

Erestor’s mind swung free into some empty space that swallowed 
words, thoughts, common sense. He clutched frantically at the 
last comment he could respond to, reminding himself yet again 
that this was the King’s cousin, that he had already decided 
this was no safe road to travel. “I spoke to your brother three, 
maybe four times in those days,” he said, pleased to hear his 
voice sounded smooth and relaxed. “The King was always keen for 
news. I wasn’t allowed contact with you, for some reason. And 
all the Companies answer to Gildor Inglorion in the end, one way 
or another.”

Elrond looked up from his almost completed task, and smiled 
wickedly. “Maedhros never trusted me to be discreet. He kept 
outsiders well away from me. I can’t imagine why.”

They were so close that, despite the wind, Erestor felt the 
warmth of sweet breath against his cheek when the Half-elf 
spoke, and caught, again, the faint scent of violets. His senses 
seemed heightened; he was very aware of the sound of the wind, 
the creaking of branches, a shutter thudding regularly somewhere 
in the distance. It was almost full dark now, the only light 
coming from the open door of the apartment. He could feel the 
grass beneath him, the way his body tingled from exercise and 
undeniable rising desire. Their eyes met, held, then Elrond 
dropped his gaze lower, to Erestor’s lips. Neither of them moved 
for a moment, then the Half-elf leaned forward and his lips 
brushed Erestor’s, withdrew, then returned. With no more thought 
than he would have given to drawing a breath, Erestor reached 
out a hand, cupped a smooth cheek and chin, and claimed the 
offered mouth.

It was only after his tongue had parted those soft, full lips 
that Erestor realised what he was doing, by which stage the idea 
of stopping was almost a foreign concept. He reached an arm 
around Elrond’s firm, slender body, drawing him closer as he 
deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against smooth pressure 
before twining, exploring, tasting, in a kiss that began in 
uncertainty and ended in perfection. Elrond’s arms went round 
him slowly, and their bodies closed the small distance between 
them and blended seamlessly.

Erestor ran his fingers through hair that felt as soft and fine 
as it looked and, as Elrond’s grip on his shoulder and back 
tightened, he probed deeper with his tongue whilst using his 
weight to move them slowly back and down, with some vague 
intention of lying on the grass.

What might have followed remained in the realm of fantasy as 
Laslech, forgotten by both, suddenly started up, ears pricked 
and, with a welcoming bark, charged past them, heading for the 
open door. Elrond, startled, broke the kiss, drawing back, his 
eyes wide, his breathing quick. “Elros,” he said by way of 
explanation, struggling to his feet, pushing hair out of his 
face and looking painfully young and unsure of himself. “I must 
go. I’m sorry, I…”

Erestor rose too, reaching a hand for the Half-elf’s arm, but 
let it drop as he realised the retreat had less to do with the 
likelihood of them being found together than with Elrond’s own 
confusion about what had just happened. Common sense came back 
and kicked, hard, and Erestor straightened up and nodded. “Yes, 
of course,” he heard himself saying. “It grows late anyway. 
Tomorrow, perhaps?”

Elrond, already halfway to the door, looked back over his 
shoulder and nodded. “Tomorrow,” he agreed. “Morning. I won’t be 
here tomorrow night.” Retreating inside he closed the door, 
leaving Erestor alone with the night, the wind and his thoughts.

* * * * *


Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 13/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: The faces of friendship (or: Erestor and Glorfindel 
talk, Elrond encounters a drunken King and Galadriel stares out 
into the West.)
Beta: Enismirdal


Chapter 13


After the interminable socializing had finally come to an end, 
and after a light dinner with Gil-galad, Glorfindel had gone to 
the stables to check on his horse. He knew the grooms were 
amused by his concern at what was no more than a light strain, 
but he had always loved horses and already had a strong rapport 
with Carod. The walk also gave him the opportunity to mull over 
the day’s events.

The reception had proven surprisingly straightforward. Following 
Gil’s suggestions to the letter, he had settled in a chair as 
far from the main focus of attention – Elros and Gil-galad – as 
he could find, sipped his wine and kept his smiling responses to 
all overtures short. Elros came over and spent a few minutes 
with him and on several occasions Gil caught his eye, winked and 
raised his wine goblet in salute, but otherwise he was left more 
or less to himself, present yet uninvolved. Which more or less 
described his second life up till then, he thought wryly.

He was returning to one of the few certainties in this new life, 
the warmth of Gil-galad’s welcome, when he saw movement, a more 
solid darkness within the shadows next to one of the small trees 
that grew in bright containers along the terrace .The area of 
deeper shadow turned out to be Erestor, rendered unobtrusive by 
virtue of black hair and dark clothing, who was leaning lightly 
against the colourfully painted pot and staring off into the 
distance, apparently lost in thought.

Glorfindel paused. He could walk on, pretending not to notice, 
or he could do something which he found painfully difficult - 
stop and indulge in small talk for a few minutes. The choice was 
taken from him when Erestor turned his head slightly and smiled 
in greeting. Glorfindel forced down the habitual nervous flutter 
and went over to join him.

“Enjoying the night?” he asked, cringing at the banality of the 
question. He went to stand on the opposite side of the tree, 
keeping it between them almost by way of a boundary.

Erestor’s mouth twitched slightly, possibly not with mirth. “It 
seemed the right time to be considering my future,” he replied 
cryptically in his quietly mellow voice.

Glorfindel shot him am inquiring glance, but was not invited to 
pursue the subject. Making a noncommittal sound, he leaned 
against his side of the container and shared the view of the 
shadowed garden and the deeper darkness beyond that was the sea. 
They stood thus for a time, separated by the small tree, 
experiencing an unexpectedly comfortable silence.

“Was it a successful evening?” Erestor asked, breaking the 
stillness after a while. “We were discussing the guest list over 
dinner. Quite an interesting combination.”

“I don’t think anyone besides the King was what you might call 
comfortable,” Glorfindel admitted with a quick smile. “But 
everything seemed to go as planned. It’s strange though, the Men 
seemed barely to know one another.” His voice reflected his 
dubiousness at the idea, but Erestor caught the implied question 
and shook his head.

“They seldom mingle. They form little groups and band together 
against the world. Though considering the violent times we’ve 
just lived through it’s no wonder they avoid strangers,” he 
added, then paused, his face thoughtful as he considered 
something. “As far as that goes, outside of the Wandering 
Companies you seldom find much mingling between Elves, either.”

Glorfindel thought about that. “I knew quite a few Sindar,” he 
said in an almost tentative voice, then, before Erestor could 
comment, he added, “Of course, Gondolin was very different to 
Lindon.”

For a moment his vulnerability was discernable even by 
torchlight, and Erestor felt a strong empathy with him. 
Gondolin, like Nargothrond, was no more. For Glorfindel, too, 
the past was a closed book, gone, leaving no remnant to which he 
could cling. His quick mind pursued that thread a moment longer, 
wondering what, if anything, remained of the Hidden City, and 
whom he could ask.

“You’ve had dealings with the Second-born, then?” Glorfindel 
asked before the conversation could drift off into silence. He 
had learned to do this from watching Gil-galad, and was quietly 
pleased that he was becoming quite proficient. Erestor smiled 
and nodded, glad to return to less emotive ground.

“I spent some time in their settlements, studying military 
movements and such,” he explained. “I posed as a trader, 
usually. That way, I could spend as much time as I needed. They 
seemed pleasant enough, I suppose. A little preoccupied with 
their own affairs, but…“

Glorfindel smiled, amused. “That might have been their 
impression of Elves, too, before you arrived and showed them our 
true colours – insatiably curious about everything.”

Erestor gave him a startled look. Unexpectedly, the warrior had 
a sense of humour to go with the extreme good looks and 
legendary past. He supposed that anyone spending as much time 
with Gil-galad as Glorfindel was rumoured to would probably need 
one. The King was as well known for his irreverent wit as for 
his administrative capabilities or his battle skills. He 
acknowledged the observation with a flash of dark eyes and a 
nod.

“Tomorrow I have to give the visitors a tour of the armoury and 
training grounds,” he confided, though he thought it likely that 
Glorfindel already knew this. “It surprised me a little. I would 
have thought their new king would have liked to see to that 
himself.”

“I doubt that Elros has spent much time training in arms 
lately,” Glorfindel offered. “It would be more important for him 
to learn history and lore and the like. He travels to a land 
without enemies, after all.”

“I hear he has the beginnings of a loremaster’s skill?” Erestor 
had heard Elrond’s brother was as different to him as chalk to 
cheese, and his first-hand observations certainly seemed to 
confirm this.

Glorfindel nodded. “The King’s seen to it that he’s been well-
trained in the skills needed for rulership. Not much time to be 
young, though. Definitely not much time to build on the training 
he had from Maedhros.”

Erestor widened his expressive dark eyes, his equivalent of 
raising an eyebrow. “Maedhros trained them to fight?” he asked. 
Nothing he had seen on his visits to that camp had given any 
indication of this, although those visits had, of necessity, 
been brief.

“Enough to protect themselves at need, yes. I’ve tested Elrond – 
he’s better than good with a knife.”

Erestor pursed his lips slightly, indicating surprise, and they 
lapsed once more into an easy silence, until Glorfindel 
straightened up, saying, “I’m for bed, I think. It’s almost time 
for the watch to change.”

Erestor nodded, though he was reluctant to go to bed where, he 
suspected, he would be forced to deal with visions of smoky hair 
and eyes, memories of a responsive mouth and a lithe body. He 
had a lot to think about; a decision to pursue the Princeling 
would have the potential to shape his entire future. Erestor’s 
usual preference was to greet problems head-on, but the longer 
he could avoid dealing with this one the better he liked it.

“Perhaps we could talk another time?” he suggested on an 
impulse. “Share a little wine perhaps?” He was horrified to hear 
his words come out sounding for all the world like the prelude 
to a proposition. He saw the thought cross Glorfindel’s mind – 
he had an open face and gave the appearance of being easy to 
read, though Erestor had an idea this was not always so. “Oh no, 
I’m sorry, I never meant it to sound like…”

Glorfindel had no idea if an overture had been intended or not, 
but doubted it. Though a novice to the art of building 
friendships, he also knew better than to spoil the interlude by 
allowing it to end on a note of suspicion or discomfort. “Of 
course not. I’d like to continue this over some wine …another 
time, of course, when the King isn’t waiting for me.”

Erestor nodded slowly, his expression deadpan. “If you agree to 
forget how badly I expressed myself, I could pretend you never 
told me the King was waiting for you at this hour of the night.”

Glorfindel felt heat rush to his face and was grateful for the 
dark, then he glanced across at Erestor and their eyes met. They 
surveyed each other in all seriousness for a moment and then the 
laughter came, open and easy between them.

Erestor straightened up, pushed his shining black hair back from 
his face and grinned, a flash of perfect white teeth.

“Maybe lunch instead.”

----------


Over dinner Elrond had dutifully listened and made sympathetic 
noises as Elros described his councillors, the awkwardness of 
the evening and the fact that Gil-galad must have been in a 
particularly sadistic mood to have arranged it in the first 
place. Privately he thought it had been a good idea, both 
practical and supportive, and that Elros should have thought of 
it for himself.

He only managed to avoid listening to a further list of 
complaints from the normally amiable Elros, this time revolving 
round Gil-galad, on the grounds that Laslech needed her evening 
walk, made evident by the fact that the dog, who had recently 
graduated to walking unleashed at his side, was already waiting 
at the door. About to head out into the wind-tossed night, 
Elrond paused.

“’Ros?”

Elros, lying on the couch beneath the window, his feet up on the 
rest, was feeling tired and disinclined to move. He turned his 
head to look at his brother.

“After you reach the new land, you’ll make sure someone walks 
her, won’t you? I know you won’t have much time yourself to 
begin with. She likes her walk in the evening.”

Elros took a breath. This was a minor detail amongst a sea of 
items to be dealt with, most of which had no margin for error. 
He had spent little time with Laslech, in fact he had never been 
particularly fond of dogs, but she had been a gift from people 
who would be numbered amongst his new subjects and he would make 
certain she was properly cared for. Also, his brother was fond 
of her, and Elros loved his brother. “I will see to it that she 
has her walk. Someone will take her, I promise.”

Elrond looked at him, further questions on his lips, but in the 
end, realising that Elros was tired, simply nodded. His brother 
was the only person whose word he accepted without question. And 
possibly Glorfindel’s. And Ereinion’s, of course. He frowned at 
himself. He was really becoming quite disgustingly trusting.

----------


The garden was evocative of Erestor, and Elrond had to remind 
himself firmly that the black-haired Elf was almost certainly in 
his room by this time, possibly already in bed. This thought was 
of limited value, sending his imagination down paths he 
preferred to leave unexplored for the present.

They followed the first half of their regular route about the 
grounds, but the wind had become unpleasant and when they were 
near the main entrance Elrond decided to cut the evening ramble 
short by returning home through the Palace. It had been 
suggested to him that Laslech should be leashed while indoors or 
in public areas, but it was late enough for him to dismiss the 
idea with a shrug.

Two of Gil-galad’s senior councillors were standing just inside 
the entrance, deep in conversation, and he considered braving 
the rising storm and returning the way he had come, but he was 
tired of having sand and small debris blown into his eyes. It 
wouldn’t have bothered Elros, but in some ways Elrond’s likes 
and dislikes were more in line with those normal to the Second-
born than his brother’s would ever be.

“Come on, girl,” he said softly, reaching down to pat the dog 
affectionately. “Next to me. Walk nicely.”

They walked sedately past the two Elves, who glanced up, 
registered vague disapproval, something Elrond encountered far 
too often for it to bother him, and then returned to their 
discussion. Laslech kept perfectly in step with her companion 
for another minute, till she suddenly became aware of a 
potential distraction and, with an excited yelp, shot through 
the half-open door to their left.

“Laslech,” he called, trying to express sharpness in a near 
whisper. “Come here!”

Such actions from her normally heralded the discovery of a 
friend, and his thoughts went immediately to Erestor, seeing 
black hair, heavy-lidded dark eyes, velvet lips… He took a deep, 
firm breath, attempting to control the delicious combination of 
excitement and unease flooding him at the memory of that mouth 
on his, and followed Laslech into the dim, firelit room.

She was standing on her hind legs, almost bouncing in her 
efforts to lick the face of an Elf who was sprawled in a chair 
by the fire, his legs stretched out to catch the warmth of the 
blaze. He had a hand on Laslech’s head and was patting her 
heavily. As Elrond crossed the room he realised two things more 
or less simultaneously: the Elf was Ereinion, and he was far 
from sober.

Despite being insatiably curious, Elrond’s normal preference was 
to watch from the outside and remain uninvolved. He had never 
seen Ereinion drunk before, but his cousin’s choice to 
overindulge was no-one’s business but his own. Furthermore, he 
was the High King and if he wanted to sit in a darkened, though 
public, room and drink, that was his right. Elrond determined to 
retrieve his – Elros’ – dog and leave.

Then he remembered the councillors he had passed, who would be 
more than happy to share gossip about the King with anyone 
willing to listen. Gil-galad managed his council with good 
humour and an unexpectedly firm hand, often provoking resentment 
in those circles where, despite the details of his pedigree, he 
was regarded as no more than Círdan’s protégé. Elrond, who would 
never leave someone he accepted as family open to harm or 
ridicule, set about taking control of the situation.

“Laslech, down, get down, that’s enough! Sit!” Fitting actions 
to words, he pulled the dog off, pushing her bottom firmly down 
as he told her to sit and was a little surprised when she 
obeyed. She appeared to understand that something was less than 
right with the situation.

Gil-galad reached down and continued to pat the dog. His other 
hand cradled an empty pewter goblet. He looked at Elrond 
blearily, then frowned in recognition and attempted to sit up. 
Elrond, a veteran of armed camps where wine had, on occasion, 
flowed freely and with predictable consequences, realised that 
Ereinion was horribly drunk. He noticed a flagon on the floor on 
the far side of the chair, and he wondered how much of the 
contents, if any, remained. He knew he would have a better 
chance of getting his cousin to his rooms unnoticed if he 
managed to avoid antagonizing him and therefore hoped the scowl 
was something he need not take personally. That hope was 
shattered immediately.

“Oh, it’s you,” Gil-galad said flatly. “What else do you want?”

Elrond knew there was no point in trying to have a sensible 
discussion with someone in the state his cousin’s speech 
suggested. He also remembered the morning he had tried to speak 
up for Glorfindel and the white-cold anger he had encountered 
and shivered involuntarily. He had no idea how far alcohol might 
change Gil-galad’s normally amiable personality, but the King 
certainly looked less than pleased to see him.

“Nothing, I don’t want anything, Sire. I just wondered if 
something was wrong, if I could fetch someone… something…?” Some 
instinct kept him from mentioning Glorfindel by name.

Gil-galad glared at him. “Don’t need anyone. Don’t need 
anything,” he declared firmly. “Alone. Kings must be alone. Used 
to it.” He seemed to think about this for a moment. “Not good 
though.”

The place within Elrond that retained vital information about 
people’s desires and motives became alert, but he turned the 
main focus of his attention to the problem of getting a large, 
apparently unfriendly Elf upstairs without drawing attention to 
either of them. The three of them, he thought wryly. Laslech 
would need to be on her best behaviour, too.

“No, I’m sure being alone isn’t good, Sire,” he said, trying for 
a reassuring tone. “And I don’t see why you believe Kings are 
meant to be. You aren’t, anyway. You have lord Círdan, you have 
family, friends, there’s Glori…”

“No Glorfindel,” Gil-galad said firmly, nodding his head and 
gesturing with the hand holding the empty wine cup. “Can’t. Your 
Glorfindel.”

Making no attempt to understand this, Elrond raised his eyes to 
the ceiling and drew in a deep breath. “Sire, can we talk about 
this later?” he asked steadily. “If we go to your rooms there’ll 
be lamplight, a better fire. Maybe you can have another cup of 
wine…?”

This was greeted with a blank stare. “Nothing wrong with this 
fire,” he was informed. Somewhere off on the edge of hearing 
Elrond became aware the Elves he had left at the entrance had 
moved a little closer. He reached down, took the cup, and placed 
it firmly on the floor next to the flagon, fending off Gil-
galad’s attempts to snatch it back. He gave the flagon an 
experimental shake. It too was empty.

Pushing aside the memory of ice-blue eyes in a quiet room, he 
knelt beside Laslech who was sitting quietly, seemingly 
unconcerned. The hand resting heavily on her back was large and 
capable, with long fingers and squared off, very clean 
fingernails. Elrond had always liked his cousin’s hands. 
Carefully he covered it with his own. There was no resistance. 
They sat like this for a while, the Elf, the Half-elf and the 
dog, and listened to the fire hissing and crackling and the wind 
rattling against the windows. Finally he looked up into half-
closed eyes. “Why no Glorfindel?” he asked gently. “What’s 
wrong, Ereinion?”

Gil-galad sighed heavily. “Círdan says. Can’t be weak. Need 
heirs, Círdan says. You… understand him. Like gold. Golden.“

Elrond took a moment to make sense of this. “Círdan doesn’t know 
what he’s talking about. Those things are your choice, nothing 
to do with him.”

“Can’t.” The blue eyes looked suddenly bleak and alone and 
almost sober. Elrond felt his heart contract in sympathy, and 
experienced a burst of real anger against Círdan, very different 
to the normal reflexive irritation. He squeezed the hand still 
resting under his before rising gracefully.

“Let’s just get to your rooms. Come on. Let me walk with you and 
make sure no one bothers you.” Or gets close enough to try and 
talk to you and smell the wine, he added to himself.

Gil-galad stared up at him, assessing the offer. Finally he 
sighed and nodded and, taking the proffered hand, struggled 
laboriously to his feet, swaying ominously as he did so. One of 
the King’s side braids had come unfastened, Elrond noticed; the 
dark, heavy hair swayed with every motion, and he looked tired, 
sad and a little confused.

Resisting the urge to tuck the loose hair behind an ear, Elrond 
considered the practicalities, then tucked a shoulder under one 
muscular arm and, turning to look at Ereinion from an angle that 
was far closer than anything either had experienced before said, 
“Right, hold onto me. Try and make it look natural. And don’t 
talk to anyone. We don’t want the whole of Lindon gossiping that 
you had to be helped to your bed.”

----------


Gil-galad proved far less difficult to settle for the night than 
Elrond had expected. The King was not so drunk that he failed to 
understand the need for discretion, and the distance to his 
rooms was covered uneventfully, save for some hesitation on the 
stairs that had the Half-elf’s heart in his throat as he 
imagined himself, entangled with the High King, tumbling down to 
the bottom.

Once inside, Gil-galad headed straight for his bed, giving 
Elrond his first look at the royal bedchamber – simple but 
pleasant, he noted, and decorated in shades of green and blue. 
His cousin more or less fell onto the bed and into sleep, 
leaving him to take off boots and loosen what clothing he found 
impossible to remove. Finally, having done his best, he drew the 
covers up from the other side of the bed and over Ereinion, 
scooped random items of clothing onto a chair, and let himself 
out. The two guards outside the door stared straight ahead. 
Elrond had already made the need for discretion quite clear to 
them.

He returned home – it was finally beginning to feel like a home 
– with Laslech to find Elros had already retired for the night. 
He had been feeling the strain of the final preparations over 
the last few weeks and seemed to be almost permanently tired. 
Elrond tried to settle down with a book, but found himself drawn 
once more outdoors, some combination of the howling wind and the 
smell of the sea making him restless, unable to settle.

The Palace was quiet. Elves loved the night, walked happily 
under moon and starlight, but the weather was wild enough to 
have driven inside almost everyone besides the guards, whose 
stations were all known to the Half-elf and easily avoided. He 
walked at an even pace, going nowhere in particular while giving 
the impression of having a set destination.

The terrace that ran the length of the private wing of the 
Palace was in semi-darkness when his steps finally led him 
there, but as he rounded the corner he saw he was not alone. A 
pale figure stood straight and solitary beside the balustrade, 
one hand resting on the stone barrier. Torchlight picked out 
gold lights in the long hair, confirming the identity of the 
other wanderer in the night as Galadriel. Elrond moved back 
silently, seeking shadow while he waited to see if she meant to 
stay or leave.

His attention was centred on staying as silent as possible and 
he jumped violently at a touch to his shoulder. He turned 
sharply and found himself a hand’s-breadth away from Glorfindel, 
who was wrapped securely against the night in a dark cloak, and 
whose hair was sensibly braided against the wind.


“Are you trying to scare me to death?” he hissed.

Glorfindel grinned briefly. “I wanted to warn you not to disturb 
her.”

Elrond looked over his shoulder at the tall, still form, then 
back to Glorfindel. “That’s Ereinion’s aunt, Galadriel,” he 
explained softly. “I think we’re distantly related – I forget 
quite how.”

Glorfindel nodded, smiling. “Yes, I know who she is. I’ve known 
her all my life – my first life anyway.”

Elrond shot him a half-amused glance. “You said that quite 
naturally. I suppose you can get used to anything if you have 
to. It’s starting to get easier, isn’t it? What do you think 
she’s doing out here this late at night?”

“No, it doesn’t just get easier,” Glorfindel corrected. “It 
takes a lot of work, but I’m trying. And her? She’s being 
Galadriel, that’s what she’s doing.”

They were standing as close as lovers, yet without the tension. 
Elrond felt a sense of security that, up till then, only 
Ereinion’s presence had offered. Glorfindel had an aura of 
strength and steadiness which had not been obvious when they 
first met but which was increasing as the golden warrior found 
his place in the world once more. Elrond wondered what he had 
been like in Gondolin. He thought that the freedom available in 
Lindon might suit him far better than the confines of the Hidden 
City.

He looked back again at the immobile shape, outlined against the 
night by her light-coloured clothing and long, fair hair. “She 
looks as though she’s listening to something?” he ventured. 
Glorfindel laughed almost soundlessly, warm breath ghosting 
across Elrond’s face.

“That’s possible, of course,” he agreed. “But I think she’s just 
enjoying the night. She always loved storms.”

Elrond turned to study Galadriel, moving back against Glorfindel 
in an unconscious bid to find shelter from the wind, and was 
aware of hard muscle and, despite the weather, a faint warmth. A 
hand rested lightly, naturally on his shoulder, and they stood 
together watching Finarfin’s daughter.

“If you were looking for Ereinion, I can save you the trouble,” 
Elrond said, remembering belatedly and tilting his head back to 
speak close to Glorfindel’s ear. “He’s having an early night.”

He felt Glorfindel tense slightly, thought about what he had 
said, and realised it might be misconstrued. “A little too much 
wine,” he explained. “I tucked him into bed myself. It was 
interesting.”

“He was drunk? I’ve never seen him take more than two or three 
cups.” Glorfindel remembered a night not very long ago when Gil 
had in fact drunk somewhat more than two cups of wine, and how 
the night had ended for them, and found himself blushing in the 
dark, something he still did far too easily even though he was 
starting to overcome many of the more obvious signs of shyness.

Elrond chuckled softly. “I found him sitting in the dark 
downstairs. And no, I’ve never seen him drunk before either. He 
said something about doing some thinking.” He decided it was 
better to keep his guesses concerning the subject to himself. 
“No, you’re right, I don’t think she’s listening to anything.”

“Is he all right? What do you think she’s doing then?”

“She’s watching something. And he’s fine; he’ll feel terrible in 
the morning, though. You might want to speak softly when you see 
him.”

Glorfindel gave a quiet snort of laughter, and then said, 
“There’s nothing for her to see out there, nothing but an empty 
garden.”

Some instinct spoke to Elrond, great-grandson of Lúthien, making 
him focus his full attention on Galadriel, who remained standing 
straight and motionless, gazing out into the night. Her hair, he 
realised, seemed impervious to the wind - it barely moved. He 
was reminded for an instant of a pavilion on a beach, with the 
whisper of the sea in the background, then abruptly he felt as 
though he had moved into another space, somewhere neither warm 
nor cold, where the wind no longer blew. The space was already 
occupied by a presence of immense power, will and defiance. He 
saw a tumble of pictures – faces and scenes foreign and 
meaningless, unconnected to him, followed by words, distinct and 
clear.

He came back on a breath at the tightening of Glorfindel’s hand 
on his shoulder. “Elrond? What’s wrong?”

“She’s watching the sea and looking back into the West.”

His voice shook and he found he was shivering and couldn’t stop. 
Glorfindel felt him shaking and, removing his cloak, wrapped it 
round the Half-elf. Glancing over Elrond’s shoulder he saw 
Galadriel turn her head and look directly at them. Somewhere on 
the edge of thought he felt rather than heard soft laughter. He 
glared at her. The gift of speaking from mind to mind had never 
drawn him, but he had encountered it before.

Placing a protective hand on Elrond’s shoulder and using a skill 
he had no idea he possessed, and which had formed no part of his 
first life, he answered laughter with disapproval before he 
raised a barrier and closed her out from both himself and 
Elrond. He rested his cheek briefly against the soft, wind-
tangled hair. “Come, enough of this. Time to get out of the 
cold. Let’s find some wine and leave her to the night.”

* * * * *


Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 14/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: Gil-galad faces a new day and a decisive Glorfindel, 
Erestor receives an invitation.
Beta: Enismirdal


Chapter 14


Glorfindel woke to discover that he was lying stretched across 
the bed, his sleeping self already accustomed to competing for 
space with a large, sprawling and often restless figure. It took 
him a moment to realise he was alone and in the room assigned to 
him on his arrival in Lindon. Since they had become lovers, his 
nights had been spent in Gil-galad’s bed and he had woken each 
morning to warm flesh and a sleepy, amourous greeting.

Although it was well before sunrise, a sense of restless purpose 
and a need to clear his head drove him to dress in light, casual 
clothing, bind back his hair and head outdoors. He needed to 
examine his past in order to determine his future, and when he 
wanted to order his thoughts Glorfindel had a tried and trusted 
practice. He ran.

He started at an easy pace, but by the time he had reached the 
cottages and small garden patches behind the kitchens he was 
moving fast, head up, arms and legs moving smoothly. Buildings, 
trees, Elves who at such an early hour were probably either 
cleaners or kitchen staff blurred past him as he strove to reach 
the state where it seemed he inhabited two worlds; the physical 
world of controlled breath and delight in his body being put to 
optimum use, and the inner landscape where his thoughts 
expressed themselves in pictures, half articulated ideas and 
snatches of sound.

Looking back at his first life was becoming increasingly 
difficult as time passed. Lately, however, even simple, everyday 
details were requiring more and more effort to recall. The 
circumstances leading to his fatal encounter on the Cirith 
Thoronath had been hazy and dreamlike from the first and his 
death, though clearly detailed, seemed almost to belong to 
another. He assumed this distance was his mind’s attempt to 
protect him from the memory. Still clear, however, was the way 
he had tip-toed through life, certain of his lack of worth, 
unconvinced even when given praise and commands by his king, or 
when courted by someone as desirable and popular as Ecthelion.

As he left behind the rough, springy texture of the grass in 
favour of the beaten track leading from the stables down towards 
the shore, Glorfindel grinned briefly and humourlessly to 
himself. He wasn’t stupid; he had noticed Elrond’s lack of 
enthusiasm while he had been singing the praises of his first 
love. Now that he had experience of being treated with affection 
and tenderness, he could see the lack in Ecthelion with clear 
eyes. Up until his death though, he had firmly believed that 
what he received was far more than he could ever hope to 
deserve.

In his second life his attempts at safe anonymity had failed 
almost from the start. Gil-galad had used a combination of 
kindness and common sense to draw him out of the hole in which 
he had sought refuge, and followed this with tenderness and 
passion that, for Glorfindel, were like the ending of an 
unnoticed drought. Despite all this, he knew he clung to his 
shyness as though it were a cloak, a shield to shelter behind. 
His father’s disappointment in him had cut deeply, leaving all 
but indelible scars. It had coloured his actions and opinions, 
made him distrust any evidence that he was well-regarded or 
worthy of love.

He frowned as he considered the way he cautiously filled the 
less-occupied corners of Gil-galad’s time as though grateful for 
the notice, being careful not to presume too much, and he 
wondered at his lover’s tolerance. Worse still, Glorfindel 
realised, was the manner in which he had refused the command 
position offered to him. True, it was diametrically opposed to 
his views on life, but he had done so with scant grace and a 
denial of the compliment offered to him that was little less 
than an insult. He felt himself colour at the memory and his 
pace slowed and an awareness of his surroundings returned.

His route had finally taken him down to the beach. Reaching the 
water’s edge, he kept running, heading towards the far point 
where the rocks came down to meet the sea and it was impossible 
to go further without climbing. He considered wading out a short 
distance so that he could enjoy the fresh salty coolness of the 
water but instead, clambering up the rocks, he sat and caught 
his breath and then offered the customary gesture of silent 
respect to Lord Ulmo.

His experience of the ocean was limited; he still regarded it 
with a quiet mixture of awe and respect, and could listen to its 
voices and watch its endless motion for hours. The sounds of 
wave and wind blended in his mind and, leaning back on his 
elbows, he found himself smiling at the antics of the flocked 
seabirds fighting amongst themselves out beyond the breakers. He 
stayed like this and watched the sun rise, aware of being alive, 
strong and unscathed, all of these things an incomprehensible 
gift beyond gifts.

Eventually he was ready to address the growing impatience he 
felt towards himself.

In his more introspective moments, he knew there was no logical 
basis for his insecurities. His household in Gondolin had 
certainly been both proud and fond of him. His warriors had been 
loyal and respectful, knowing that he genuinely cared about them 
and had an interest in their lives and problems. Until he heard 
Gil-galad discussing the qualities of a good commander with 
Elros, he had never realised that behaviour he regarded as 
common sense and simple decency was, in fact, the exception 
rather than the rule.

Meeting people and building friendships held less terror for him 
now, mainly due to Gil-galad’s influence and example. He and 
Erestor had been comfortable together from their first meeting 
and he often felt as though he had known Elrond for years. In 
fact, his unexpected ability to respond in kind to Galadriel the 
previous night had been born out of his instinctive impulse to 
protect a friend. Elven skills of the mind were not his way, and 
he had little curiosity about the means he had employed as a 
shield against his highly skilled cousin, but the ability had 
been available to him when he needed it, a weapon like any 
other.

His response had been that of a warrior, protecting his declared 
lord far more than it had been a simple rebuke of an abuse by a 
much-loved cousin. It was work he understood and it had been 
made possible by the fact that, although in all other ways he 
was insecure, unwilling or unable to put himself forward lest he 
draw attention to his perceived shortcomings, as a warrior he 
permitted himself to be proactive, fearless, proficient.

This single event had resolved itself into a long-overdue 
catalyst. Change had been wrought by something as small and as 
simple as a one word question which had kept him awake for much 
of the night: Why? If he was capable of acknowledging himself a 
proficient warrior, then why not also accept he might have other 
laudable qualities, as Gil-galad told him with affectionately 
amused regularity?

Firmly he reminded himself that he had been born in the West in 
the time before the darkness, he had crossed the Helcaraxë one 
foot before the other, speaking encouragement and comfort to all 
around him - there had been no room for shyness and insecurity 
on the Ice - he had survived bitter warfare and had returned 
from death itself. He might never agree with those who named him 
a hero, but it was time, perhaps, to reassess his worth.

He got to his feet and stretched, flexing his muscles, arching 
his back and looking up to the paling sky, then turned and 
headed back the way he had come, slowly at first, then 
increasing his speed till his feet were barely touching the hard 
sand at the water’s edge.

----------


By the time he neared the end of his routine and Elrond had 
still not appeared, Erestor had begun to suspect that last night 
had been too much too soon and that the Princeling was avoiding 
him. He was quite disconcerted by the relief he felt when the 
door opened and the Half-elf, clad in a casual grey robe and 
with his hair loose save for a single braid down the back, came 
out onto the patio, where he remained a silent watcher until the 
final sequence was concluded.

Their greeting was cautious, neither of them being completely 
sure what, if anything, the kiss had meant, whether it had been 
a not-so-simple response to the intimacy of the moment, or the 
beginning of something greater. As the elder and also, as he was 
starting to understand, by far the more experienced, Erestor 
supposed he should be taking the lead, but he found himself at a 
loss. Kissing princes was out of his experience.

It was Elrond, however, who had the idea of walking part way 
with Erestor to his office, which effectively reduced the 
tension while still offering them time to talk. Their route 
should have taken them through the garden and round to the 
steps, but Elrond led the way back into the apartment instead, 
and through the private wing of the palace, saying something 
about a shortcut to the administrative area. Erestor tried to 
look around him without being obvious about it, and was left 
with impressions of rich hangings, glowing wood, beautifully 
woven carpets, and exquisite paintings.

Once they reached the public area they had to cross the 
courtyard, and the activity around the side entrance to the Main 
Hall caught both their attention. Elrond, with cat-like 
curiosity, suggested that a quick look at the preparations for 
the evening would do no harm and would take no more than 
minutes. This in turn led to Erestor’s introduction to the Half-
elf’s erratic time sense.

“I never see the point to these things,” Elrond said, watching 
four Elves wrestling the royal canopy into place above the head 
table. “Don’t you miss the informality of the Companies? 
Sometimes it feels very…crowded here, very loud.”

Erestor shot him a quick glance. He had forgotten how much time 
the twins had spent in the wild places of Middle-earth. Whilst 
under the control of Maedhros they had lived like fugitives, 
moving from one hidden camp to the next.

“I almost forgot that you didn’t live your whole life at a royal 
court,” he confessed. “You certainly carry yourself as though 
you did. Not a bad thing,” he added quickly, before he could be 
misunderstood. He was so late for his duties by now that it had 
simply ceased being a cause for concern. Instead of worrying, he 
had spent the last hour trying to keep up, to say or do nothing 
to make this spirit of enchantment decide he had other business 
and curtail their time.

“I hate formal dinners,” Elrond stated gloomily, gesturing 
vaguely at the scene being played out before them and pulling 
his mouth slightly at Erestor’s comments.

Erestor, who had never attended a formal dinner, who had, in 
fact, no idea of the procedures involved, gave him an amused 
look. They were sitting at the top of the steps to the gallery, 
a painting-lined balcony, running around three sides of the Main 
Hall of the Palace. The music would be provided from this upper 
floor, which would also be one of several informal venues, 
allowing guests to talk and share a cup of wine, and watch the 
scene below before dinner was served and afterwards when there 
would be dancing. Cleaners and musicians were hurrying up and 
down the stairs, forcing the pair to lean closer to the railings 
and to one another, to make space. Neither of them suggested 
moving to a less crowded spot.

Below them the tables had been set out, the shorter one at the 
head of the room, the two long ones down the sides, and they 
were currently being decorated with flowers, each place being 
marked for convenience’s sake with a sprig of rosemary. Seats 
were being brought in; benches for the lower end, individual 
stools for the upper level and high backed chairs for the top 
table, where Gil-galad would sit flanked by the guests of 
honour, one of whom would be Elrond’s brother.

“I’ve never been to a formal dinner,” Erestor admitted. “You’ll 
have to tell me about it tomorrow.”

Elrond gave him a sharp look from under impossibly long lashes. 
“You’ll be here, surely?” he asked in surprise. “Your position’s 
senior enough and anyhow Ereinion likes you, and he made the 
final changes to the list himself. He always does.”

Erestor shook his head, smiling slightly. “I received no 
invitation. Just as well; I have nothing suitable to wear 
anyway.”

Elrond opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment was forced 
to lean against the railings so that they could make way for a 
musician carrying a lute and another stringed instrument unlike 
anything he had seen before. Erestor moved over also, which put 
him almost as close to Elrond as he had been the previous night. 
He was quite content for the traffic on the short flight of 
stairs to continue indefinitely. Straightening up, Elrond said 
firmly,

“You have to be there. Not just for the experience, but because 
it would look bad if you were left off. It’s a simple division. 
Those who matter get invited; the rest don’t.”

Erestor blinked. This was a fair description of the way the 
pecking order amongst the administrative staff worked but he had 
hardly expected the Princeling to know this. Elrond saw his 
surprise and quirked an eyebrow at him. “I pay attention when 
Ereinion talks,” he said rather smugly. “And he knows how things 
work here better than anyone. He says you can’t control 
something you don’t understand.”

Erestor nodded agreement. This was one of his pivotal beliefs, 
and the reason he was making such a smooth transition into his 
new position. When he failed to understand something he asked 
questions. He said as much to Elrond, who rewarded him with an 
approving smile.

Made bold by proximity, Erestor returned the smile and 
tentatively reached out to lift and tidy back the long dark hair 
which had looped over his companion’s shoulder. Elrond’s 
uncertainty had been eased by the activity around them, but 
something in his eyes went still and watchful for a moment, 
before he relaxed and began to describe what he remembered of 
the seating plan. Erestor kept very quiet, listened attentively, 
and continued to play with the shining hair which streamed loose 
down the Half-elf’s back.

“…and Glori will probably sit over there next to that pillar, if 
that’s where they’re putting the canopy. He was an important 
Lord in Gondolin and Ereinion says his rank should still get 
respect. And you’ll sit around about there…” He pointed to a 
spot considerably further down the Hall. “Not the best place but 
not the worst either.”

“I told you I wasn’t invited,” Erestor reminded him in 
amusement, pushing his companion lightly. Elrond pushed back, a 
little harder.

“And I told you it’s important for you to be here. Which means 
you’re invited. I’ll make sure you get the actual invitation if 
you insist, but you need to start planning what you’ll be 
wearing. Black’s easy, and it suits you and I can loan you some 
jewellery, if you’d like. Ereinion always says it’s important to 
look as though you’re worth something.”

There had been rather a lot of ‘Ereinion says’, Erestor noted. 
He hoped both for his sake and for Glorfindel’s that it implied 
nothing more than respect for an older and much-admired 
relative.

----------


Glorfindel’s next stop after the beach was the complex of long 
rooms and smaller outdoor enclosures where the arts of war were 
practised. He selected a weapon, found an unoccupied corner and 
proceeded to go through the turns, slices and lunges that are 
part of any swordsman’s repertoire, mentally assessing himself 
as though his actions were those of a stranger.

Yes, he decided, satisfied with what he saw: not only was he 
still very good at what he did, but almost every day it seemed 
that a little more strength, a fraction more speed had returned 
while he slept. He spent an hour engrossed in training, which 
included some knife work and an outdoor attempt at archery, for 
which he had little skill despite having a great liking, and 
then he was free till the afternoon when he was scheduled to 
meet with his first students.

Still slightly flushed and sweat-dampened from his exertions he 
went to see Carod, and for the first time recognised the 
admiration and excitement in the young groom’s eyes as they 
talked. The horse was to all intents and purposes recovered and 
ready to be ridden again and Glorfindel, pleased and relieved, 
staying a short time to talk to him and stroke his nose. When he 
left it was not before thanking the immensely proud youngster, 
and asking him to take the horse for a short, sedate ride.

Going back to his rooms, he washed and changed out of the 
leggings and plain shirt and put on the blue tunic that he had 
previously thought too bright. He brushed his hair and then, 
rejecting the careful braids he habitually wore, left it loose, 
caught lightly back from his face with a tortoiseshell clasp. 
For his entire life he had been told he had exceptionally lovely 
hair. It was time, he decided, to take people at their word and 
stop worrying so much about drawing uncomfortable attention.

He knew that there were many areas of his life that needed 
change, but he decided it would be best to tackle them one at a 
time, starting in the place where he felt the most secure. 
Taking a firm breath, he went to wake Gil-galad.

----------


The morning sun brought Gil-galad back to grudging 
consciousness. Someone had drawn back the drapes, and the 
sunlight, though weak and uncertain, fell directly across his 
pillow as though out of spite. He tried to turn his head away 
from the intruding light and sullen pain lanced through it, 
making him grunt with surprise.

He turned over slowly, his eyes slitted against light and pain, 
to ascertain the identity of the person who would be receiving 
the full brunt of his discomfort, and was confronted by a 
golden-haired Elf clad in sky blue who was sitting in a chair 
under the window watching him.

Gil-galad eased himself up on one elbow, pushing back long, 
extremely untidy black hair with a hand that was less than 
steady. They stared at one another. Glorfindel had a determined 
look about him, and Gil-galad wondered if he had perhaps said 
something contentious in his sleep. The thought of less than 
wise utterances led him uneasily to a tangled memory of Elrond 
which his mind was unready to retrieve, and he backed away from 
it, hoping there was less to remember than he suspected.

“Good morning. I won’t ask how you slept,” Glorfindel said 
neutrally. Gil-galad had no idea how the blonde felt about 
drunkenness, but had an idea he was about to find out. He nodded 
carefully, and his head throbbed and thudded in time to the 
movement. He winced, closing his eyes against the pain and 
therefore missed the smile that tugged at the corner of 
Glorfindel’s mouth, and was quickly swallowed.

“Long night, from the look of it?

He grunted and tried to sit up, though better of it and lay back 
down in a snarl of hair, a muscular arm across his face.

“You’re the king, and if you decide to spend the morning in bed 
recovering from the night’s excesses, no one would try and 
object,” Glorfindel informed him, trying to speak severely but 
having to fight off an urge to start laughing. It was the first 
time he had seen Gil looking vulnerable, and he found it both 
endearing and encouraging. It made him feel that he did in fact 
have a chance of being an equal partner in their new but fast-
growing relationship. “However, I was asked to mention that your 
assistant is looking for you, you have a council meeting just 
before lunch, and I was told you specifically wanted to go 
riding with Elros this afternoon.”

“You my new assistant?” Gil-galad growled, squeezing his eyes 
closed and trying to force the headache back to a manageable 
level. He had a picture of galloping along the beach with Elros 
and all but shuddered. “No riding,” he added firmly. “Just…not.”

He opened one eye to look again at Glorfindel, still settled 
quite comfortably in the chair. Something besides the 
unexpectedly bright tunic seemed different about him, but Gil-
galad was in no mood to try and understand what or why. One 
question felt important, though, and this he asked. “You weren’t 
here last night, were you? “

“No, but I heard about it from Elrond. He said you needed to 
think, that there were some problems you were trying to solve.” 
Glorfindel crossed his legs and leaned back and the sun catching 
his shining hair was a sight Gil-galad found somewhat too bright 
for comfort. “If you’re willing, in future I’d be happy to 
listen if there are things you need to talk about. I’ll even try 
and keep you company with the wine. Solitary drinking sounds 
like a lonely business to me.”

Gil-galad studied him in thoughtful silence. The Elf, who looked 
like Glorfindel but had the mannerisms of someone far more self-
assured, and who sounded rather like…rather like Elrond 
actually, rose and came over to the bed and poured a cup of 
water from the beaker on the nightstand. Gil saw there was also 
a bowl of sliced fruit and some bread and what looked like 
honey. His stomach protested at the thought, but he accepted the 
proffered cup, trying to keep the water from spilling.

“I think we need to decide something,” the clear, implacable 
voice continued, while a firm though gentle hand came to rest on 
his shoulder. “Either I am to be treated simply as a trophy, an 
unlikely conquest to add to your apparently impressive list. 
Or…” Gil-galad opened his mouth to protest, but found no words 
and instead looked mutely up into the deep blue eyes that met 
his with level calm. “Or, we can try and have the type of 
relationship where you can confide in me rather than seeking a 
solution in wine. And of course I know this is not a habit of 
yours, but the principle remains.”

Shaking his head at the less than impressive sight before him, 
Glorfindel went and found a light robe which he tossed onto the 
bed.

“I know you hate the idea of confiding in anyone,” he added more 
gently. ”I also find it difficult. Perhaps we could try and 
teach each other? It might be more effective than drinking alone 
in the dark and then telling Elrond just enough to confuse him 
into sharing with me the parts he thinks I should know.”

Gil-galad took the robe and dragged it on. He assumed this new, 
organised Glorfindel had already arranged for a bath to be drawn 
for him. It was clear he would have no choice but to get up and 
face the day, since he felt too ill to stand against this 
onslaught.

Later, he promised himself, he and Elrond were going to be 
having a discussion about the meanings of family loyalty and 
confidentiality.

* * * * *


Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 15/25	
Author: Keiliss	
Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor
Rating: R 
Summary: The road to the future.
Beta: Enismirdal

Chapter Fifteen


“Erestor, wait a moment.”

Erestor stopped in surprise. The unadorned, grassy courtyard 
outside his office was one of the last places he would have 
expected to find Elrond. Despite, or perhaps because of, having 
spent years living in armed camps, the Half-elf’s interest in 
matters military appeared no more than minimal and confined to 
training several times a week with sword and bow as was expected 
of any well-born male of fighting age. However, here he was.

The Princeling came to a graceful halt before him, then paused 
to look around. Laslech, leashed after an earlier excursion to 
the kitchens had led to a brief exchange between Elrond and a 
badly hungover King, which had ended in clear instructions 
regarding leads and forbidden areas, sat at his feet and 
scratched herself. “You’d think they could have made it a bit 
less cheerless,” Elrond commented. “Not exactly warm and 
welcoming, is it?”

“We’re here to work, you see, not to enjoy our surroundings.”

Erestor shifted the heavy books of inventory records more 
securely in the crook of his arm. Someone, possibly the King, 
had taken a sudden interest in the contents of the weapons 
stores. Elrond turned his head to the side to read the embossed 
titles.

“Oh, is he still fussing about that? He got an inventory back 
from one of the watch stations that failed to tally and he’s 
been checking up on everyone else since then. I brought you 
these – for tonight.”

He held out a dark velvet bag, which Erestor looked at 
uncertainly. Elrond thrust it towards him. “I said I’d lend you 
some jewellery for tonight. I thought this would look nice?” The 
last few words were offered on a querying note and Erestor 
responded at once by taking the bag and opening the drawstring 
to look inside.

Dark red stones that his mind informed him had to be rubies 
gleamed back at him, seeming to glow with an inner life. He 
looked up wordlessly. “They’re strung on silk thread. You braid 
them into your hair,” Elrond explained helpfully. “I’m sorry, I 
only found five strands. My first thought was moonstones, but 
these are better. They’ll compliment you eyes. They’re lovely 
and warm … the rubies I mean.”

His voice trailed off and they shared silence, then Erestor said 
carefully. “These look quite valuable. I’ve never handled rubies 
before, nor any other precious stone. I’m grateful of course, 
but…”

“They’re a loan,” Elrond said firmly. “If they were a gift you 
could worry about it. Elros and I share things all the time…” 
Erestor saw how he flinched as he spoke his brother’s name and 
was reminded of the reason for the evening’s festivities to 
which he had, true to the Half-elf’s word, received an 
invitation. He reached out instinctively, resting the palm of 
his hand lightly against a smooth cheek. His eyes moved unbidden 
to warm, full lips and he heard Elrond draw in a breath, but 
they were interrupted by a low, cool voice.

“Elrond? How fortunate. Perhaps you can help me.”

Tall, beautiful and very pregnant, Galadriel stood in a beam of 
sunlight, her face a picture of innocent charm, her eyes 
thoughtful.

Elrond shoved the bag and Laslech’s lead into Erestor’s hand. 
“Wear them,” he said quietly, his eyes intense. “Please? They’ll 
suit you. And can you look after her while I see to this? She’s 
not allowed inside till Ereinion calms down. I’ll not be long.”

Not waiting for a response from Erestor he straightened up, 
turned and shook back his wayward hair. “Yes, Lady? How can I 
help you?”

----------


She had a wish, she said, to see what progress had been made 
with the new library, built to replace the rather cramped and 
inadequate rooms that had been part of the original design of 
the Palace. Once indoors they made their way slowly in the 
direction of the new development, with Galadriel speaking 
amiably about generalities. Elrond kept up, listened politely 
and tried to relax. The Aman-born regularly made not only him 
but most of his generation ill at ease. There was something 
about them that was simply – other.

The corridors were quiet at this time of the day, and the weak 
sunlight slanting in through the long windows divided the floor 
into alternating bars of light and darkness. Their footsteps 
echoed slightly, counterpoint to the swish of her gown. For some 
reason Elrond felt a small rush of relief each time another Elf 
came into view.

She had been discussing the difficulties involved in finding 
reliable servants for the duration of their stay in the little 
house she and Celeborn had taken overlooking the beach, and he 
was unprepared when she suddenly slanted a look at him from her 
strange, sea-hued eyes.

“This was your first encounter with your hidden side, was it 
not?”

They stopped between the windows, in light-bracketed shadow. 
Galadriel seemed even taller than she did in sunlight, her eyes 
glittered eerily and her half smile had a secretive air.

“Last night?”

She raised an eyebrow slightly, moved back into sunlight that 
caught the silver in her hair and nodded. “Those gifts and 
skills will take time and practice to master. This is merely a 
beginning.”

She walked on in silence, light and shadow, swish and step, 
allowing him to consider her words, which he did.

“What happened to me last night?”

Without answering, Galadriel passed through the open doorway 
into the new library, Elrond trailing behind her. Work had been 
completed for the day, and the cavernous main room was deserted. 
When finished, it would be remarkable. Long reading tables, as 
well as work stations for the copyists, were situated beneath 
the high windows which stretched almost the length of the outer 
wall, creating a well lit area dedicated to work and study. The 
rest of the space was taken up with empty blond wood bookcases 
and scroll holders, save for an area well away from the shelves 
where there was a cosy fireplace, surrounded by couches and 
chairs. They were currently covered with dust sheets, as were 
the tables, giving the room an abandoned, unwelcoming air. 
Double doors, one of which stood ajar, led out onto what would 
eventually be a garden of fragrant foliage, with benches looking 
out over the sea to the harbour.

Galadriel picked her way across a floor littered with offcuts 
and boxes, heading for the couches before the fireplace. Elrond 
hurried to catch up with her, unaccustomed to pregnant women, 
uncertain what was expected of him, terrified she would trip. He 
brushed the cover off hastily, watching sawdust rise into the 
light where it hovered and danced. Galadriel staggered slightly, 
causing his heart to rise into his throat, and he reached out an 
automatic arm to her, which she grasped to steady herself as she 
sat, her other hand resting lightly on her belly.

For the instant the contact between the three of them lasted , 
Elrond had the strangest sense of a far shadow of destiny, shot 
through with an uneasy mixture of warmth and horror, and then it 
was gone, leaving him facing Galadriel, who was looking up at 
him with eyes briefly narrowed in darkened interest before 
gesturing him to sit beside her. There was a small table centred 
between the chairs, and he chose to perch upon this instead.

The room was oppressively quiet save for the all-pervasive voice 
of the sea, a sound which, for all his life, Elrond would 
associate with Lindon. Galadriel was sitting with her back to 
the light, her face in shadow. The impression she gave was of a 
cloud of silver gilt hair and a pair of brilliant eyes. Elrond 
become very aware of the fact that they were completely alone. 
This was emphasised when she laughed softly, the sound carrying 
a note of moondark and alien shores, making him shiver.

“Last night you accidentally stepped into the space I occupy. 
Done properly, this skill will allow you to speak mind to mind 
with another of like ability or to read hearts and determine 
worth. Untrained, it remains an invasive gift capable of far 
more harm than good.”

“You laughed at me and then it was as though a door closed,” 
Elrond said thoughtfully, curious in spite of himself. “Before 
that there were pictures, emotions…but disconnected, meaningless 
to me.”

“That is because you lack training,” Galadriel told him gravely, 
her low voice picking up some slight echo from the empty room, 
causing the skin on the nape of his neck to prickle. “This is 
why these gifts are given to our kind and not the Secondborn. We 
have the time required to master them, which is something they 
lack.”

Restless as her reputation implied, she rose and paced over to 
the study area, forcing him to follow. She spoke as she walked, 
her voice rising and fading with the strange acoustics of the 
half-finished room. “As you age, so you will grow in power and 
skill, but while you are young you must learn the many 
possibilities of this craft and discover where your strengths 
lie.” She stood and looked out of the window for a moment, then 
glanced back at him over her shoulder. “This is the way of these 
things for such as you and I. This is who we are.”

“I want to be a healer, not – not whatever this is,” Elrond 
said, taking firm hold of his abraded nerves and squinting to 
avoid looking into the sinking sun. He had been almost tempted 
by what she might be able to teach him, regardless of how uneasy 
she made him. However, the word ‘must’ had stung, and he said 
the first thing that came to his mind and was startled to 
realise that he spoke the truth. The training he sought was not 
in Galadriel’s gift, but in Ereinion’s. He forced himself to 
turn and look at her and was disconcerted when she simply nodded 
and smiled her small, pale smile.

“Yes, of course you do,” she agreed. “You have the potential to 
become a healer of great ability and it will come to you in its 
time, as will the other. Both take application and patience, but 
for both you have a gift. They are facets of the destiny that 
will one day be yours.”

As she spoke she stroked her hand lightly over the place where 
her babe rested, as though in communion. Elrond had a good sense 
of things happening here that were beyond his knowledge, a 
feeling that he instinctively responded to by mentally stepping 
back.

“My lady, at the moment I have no urge to explore any of my – 
other gifts,” he began, seeing his opportunity to close the 
subject but, inevitably, his curiosity got the better of him, as 
always. “Though – I am curious, perhaps you could show me how 
you shut me out of your mind last night?”

Galadriel gave him an amused look. “That? I would teach you 
that, of course, though not in isolation from other skills. 
However, those actions were not mine, but Glorfindel’s. Many of 
us born in the West have the aptitude for such things, though I 
had always thought him singularly uninterested in farspeech.”

Turning, she made her way across to the doors leading out onto 
the fledgling garden, stopping in a beam of reddening light that 
added flame to her hair, making her momentarily look unfamiliar 
and strange.

“I think it will be long before either of us understands why the 
Valar chose to continue Lúthien’s line amongst both First and 
Secondborn, but nothing, not your choice, not your gifts, 
certainly not your brother’s fate, are casual matters. Allowing 
me to train you will simply confirm rather than delay your 
destiny, young one. The Valar leave nothing to chance.”

----------


The dinner was long and, in Erestor’s opinion, successful. The 
food was both plentiful and well-prepared, the wine chosen from 
amongst the best vintages available. Gil-galad was known to 
believe that a host who stinted his guests could be regarded as 
suspect on many levels, and was earning a reputation for setting 
an excellent table. The music from the gallery made a pleasant 
backdrop to the rather disjointed but enjoyable conversation to 
be had at such times.

Gil-galad sat at the main table, flanked by Elros and by 
Silbaron, who had been elected by the council to be Elros’ chief 
advisor. He was a Man of middle years from one of the 
settlements near the mouth of the Anduin, bearded as was their 
way, dark haired and grave eyed but, if the many laughing 
exchanges between himself and the High King were anything to 
judge by, certainly good humoured.

Erestor had been seated approximately where Elrond had 
indicated, between one of the archivists and the wife of one of 
the healers. She turned out to be a good dinner companion, 
having a great deal of information about many of the guests. 
Erestor, from habit, collected information as others collect 
good plate or tapestries, and was happy to sit and listen, 
offering occasional murmurs of encouragement for her to 
continue.

Elrond and Glorfindel sat not far from the high table, hosts to 
the Men who would form the nucleus of the Númenórean court. They 
sat together, sharing the canopy of estate, although the 
original idea had been for them to be placed closer to either 
end of the group. Elrond had arranged for them to be seated 
together before he and Erestor left the Hall that morning, 
implying it was somehow his fault that Glorfindel was excluded 
from the relative isolation of the King’s table. Having observed 
the quietly spoken hero’s discomfort when faced with a situation 
that forced him to make casual conversation, Erestor felt a rush 
of sympathy for him.

As it turned out, Glorfindel needed to make very little effort, 
as Elrond went out of his way to be charming and hospitable, 
apparently determined to make a good impression on his brother’s 
behalf. Erestor sat, Elrond’s rubies laced through his hair, and 
tried not to stare too hard at the captivating being who smiled 
and laughed and exchanged words and toasts up and down the 
table.

After dinner, the guests moved outside to the courtyard which, 
as was the custom in the evenings, had been transformed with 
coloured lanterns and clusters of cushions for casual seating. 
Torches in sconces flared at intervals around the square, adding 
to the festive atmosphere. While they mingled and talked, the 
tables and benches were removed and the Hall prepared for 
dancing. Erestor obtained a cup of wine and found a good vantage 
point to watch the crowd.

The Princeling, he immediately noticed, was on the opposite side 
of the square and in deep conversation with his brother. Erestor 
was struck by the contrast between them – the same hair and 
eyes, of similar build and yet so very different. Elros had a 
wider face, his hair was smooth and very neat and he seemed a 
little broader across the shoulders. He was certainly more 
restrained and deliberate in his movements compared to his 
brother’s quicksilver grace. Erestor wondered what they were 
discussing so intensely.

----------


“….and then she went outside and sat on one of the benches, and 
I no longer existed. It was like being lectured by Maedhros.”

“You need to stay away from her. She makes my nerves itch.”

The twins stood together off to one side, sharing a rare few 
minutes of public privacy. Elros was surreptitiously watching a 
small group of young Elves on the far side of the square. He had 
no place in such circles; not only had his features changed over 
time to reflect his ties to the Secondborn, but as a King in 
training, the company of his peers was something he had been 
obliged to forfeit.

Elrond knew everyone in these little cliques, although on the 
whole he remained uninvolved, set apart by his status as a 
descendant of legends and Gil-galad’s de facto heir. Now he 
followed his brother’s gaze and wondered at his interest. He 
usually found Gelladar, Bainon and their friends self-absorbed, 
boring, and interested in little more than riding, weaponry and 
sex. Well, he lacked personal experience but he was fairly sure 
there was nothing wrong with sex.

“Bainon’s father wants him to bind with Dalbros’ eldest 
daughter,” he offered. “It’s a good match. Of course h