Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 16/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: family disagreements, Gil-galad learns more than he wants to
know.

Beta: Enismirdal





Chapter 16





The half light of early morning had entered the room and was slowly
dissipating the night’s shadows and the birds had long since begun
their dawn chorus, when Glorfindel woke to the sensation of moist
lips tracing a path across his naked shoulder. He was lying on his
side, his back to Gil-galad’s warmth, and the King was wide awake. He
deduced this not only from the lingering kisses being applied to his
bare skin but also from the strong hand stroking his side, pausing at
his waist on each pass to gently finger the soft skin there.



Glorfindel yawned and rolled over onto his back and reached up a hand
to draw Gil down for a lazy good morning kiss. He slid his other arm
round him and lay savouring the feeling of thick, heavy hair slipping
through his fingers and hard muscle rippling under his palm. Dark,
wavy hair with a most un-Elven tendency towards disorder fell around
him like a curtain as Gil bent to find his lips. As the kiss ended,
Glorfindel smiled up in
tangle back, before resting his hand against Gil’s cheek in an
unconscious caress.



“Such a beautiful mess. I’ll brush it out for you later. You’re awake
early…is there something you want?”



Gil-galad chuckled softly, sliding strong arms round Glorfindel and
pulling him onto his side and into a hug that moulded their bodies
together. “There was something I had in mind, yes,” he agreed,
stroking golden hair out of the way so that he could suck teasingly
at an earlobe before exploring the ear with the tip of his tongue.
The effect, which should have been erotic, was rather spoilt by his
efforts a few moments later to get rid of a mouthful of hair.



Laughing, Glorfindel shifted lazily against him, desire taking
precedence over any thought of going back to sleep. “Give me a little
time to wake up first,” he yawned, pressing closer and twining a leg
around the King so that he could reach to rub the sensitive spot at
the back of Gil’s knee with his foot. This never failed to get a
response from his lover, and this morning was no different. An
indrawn breath was followed by a low moan as Gil buried his face in
Glorfindel’s neck and held him closer. They lay, touching and
stroking one another, moving against each other with growing pressure
and urgency.



Eventually Gil drew back and said huskily, “Turn over.”



Glorfindel lay shivering under the touch of strong hands that ghosted
smoothly over his shoulders and rib cage, down to his waist and
below. Gil, kneeling over him, brought his thumbs together to press
firmly in the small of his back, causing waves of pleasure to radiate
from the well-chosen spot. Then, moving those thumbs in small, firm,
circles that raised tingling pulses of heat, he worked his way over
Glorfindel’s buttocks and down to his cleft. Light fingertips
explored the sensitive skin before his hands retraced their path,
returning to the blonde Elf’s shoulders.



He leaned forward till he was lying almost flat, their bodies pressed
together from shoulder to toe, his heavy erection nestled between
Glorfindel’s cheeks. His right hand travelled slowly down his lover’s
arm till their hands met and fingers entwined and then he drew
Glorfindel over onto his side, into the curve of his left arm, so
that their bodies spooned together in much the same position as when
they had woken.



Freeing his hand, he trailed it down Glorfindel’s thigh with a touch
so light it raised gooseflesh in its wake, tugging gently to indicate
he should draw up his knee. Then he rested the hand on one firm
cheek, spreading him open before pushing gently forward and entering
him. Glorfindel gasped and pushed back instinctively against Gil, who
slid smoothly up into him, filling him and making him hiss sharply,
more from surprise than discomfort. Gil, on a panting groan, leaned
over him to place a kiss near his ear before asking breathlessly,
“You all right?”



Glorfindel gave a shaky laugh, edgy with excitement. “What happened
to slow, gentle and careful? It’s all right, go on, deeper.”



“You sure? Sorry – I’m rushing this. You wanted time to wake up…”



“I’m awake. Stop talking and do it. I love to feel you inside me.”



“All right, sweetheart, all right.” The words were punctuated with
lingering kisses along the side of his face and neck. “Don’t be in
such a hurry. Should I get some oil…?”



Glorfindel pushed back against him insistently and said, “When you’re
quite finished talking, do you think you could please shut up and
fuck me?”



“Did you just tell me to shut up and fuck you?” Gil asked on a warm
gust of laughter, grinning as he kissed Glorfindel’s cheek through
soft fair hair. The golden head dropped back against his shoulder and
he saw a flash of blue eyes.



“That would be right, yes,” Glorfindel said on an indrawn breath as
Gil punctuated the sentence by pushing deeper into him. “Good and
hard. Please.”



“What, like this?” Gil asked with laughter in his voice,
demonstrating. “Was this what you wanted?” A deeper thrust struck
Glorfindel’s sweet spot and caused him to claw at the sheet, curse
and jerk back urgently.



“I can get on with this, yes,” Gil agreed breathily, moving his hand
to clasp Glorfindel’s hip firmly. “Good and hard, I think you said? I
can do that, yes.” Starting slowly he proceeded to oblige, driving
into Glorfindel with ever-increasing force and speed.



At a point where he was sobbing for breath and blind to almost
everything save the heat coursing through him and Gil pounding into
him, Glorfindel moved onto his stomach, dragging Gil over with him in
a scramble of limbs and whispered endearments and obscenities, then
drew his knees under him, taking his weight on his forearms, lifting
and pushing back into each stroke on a series of low, needful growls.



Gil, reaching blindly beneath them, found Glorfindel’s length and
wrapped his hand around it tightly. He needed do no more than hold
him, as the motion of their bodies was more than enough to supply the
friction that brought Glorfindel to climax within minutes, carried
finally over the edge by the sensation of Gil’s mouth fastening onto
his neck, hard, moments before his seed covered Gil’s hand and the
bed.



Kneeling almost upright now, Gil slowed his movements, savouring the
contracting muscles clenching around his cock as he pushed slowly
deep into the tightness, drawing back, driving in, both hands
grasping Glorfindel’s hips. At last he thrust in as deeply as he was
able and held still, not breathing, his eyes closed, his fingers
gripping painfully, as the first wave of ecstasy swept through him.
Moving again, he gave a dozen more hard, panting thrusts before he
finally collapsed over Glorfindel, spent.



They lay still, breathing heavily, then slowly Gil drew back and out
and Glorfindel turned almost as part of the same motion and came into
his embrace. He wrapped his arms round Gil and held onto him, kissing
his sweat-filmed neck and cheek and murmuring indistinct words of
pleasure and thanks. And so they lay, intertwined and pressed
together almost as though seeking comfort. Finally Gil-galad drew
back a little to look at the flushed face with the kiss-swollen lips
and half-closed blue eyes.



“You do this better than anyone else I’ve ever been with. Or heard
talk of.” He was quiet for a minute and they stared at one another.
“That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?”



Glorfindel gave up his attempt to look insulted at this reference to
past lovers, and flashed Gil an affectionate smile. “Completely
wrong,” he agreed. “But I liked it anyway.”





----------





“Círdan,” Elros said blankly. “Círdan? But you’re not even upset?”



Elrond shrugged. Clad only in a night robe, he was sitting cross-
legged on his brother’s bed, the lightly woven, colourful blanket he
had found there wrapped around his shoulders. It was early morning,
but this had become the only part of the day when he could be certain
that Elros would have time to listen. Laslech lay in the doorway,
watching. Elros’ bedroom was forbidden territory.



“I can manage Círdan. You just have to look him in the eye and speak
your mind. He isn’t used to that, it stops him in his tracks.
Usually.” He dismissed his twin’s disbelieving stare with a gesture.
“Glori’s explanation made sense. Círdan won’t push me to do things
just to see if I can. He’s not – intense like Galadriel. And Ereinion
said he could ask him to stop telling me how to behave, too.”



Drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms round them, he leaned
forward, his voice becoming even more animated. “And in a few years I
might go and spend some time studying with Gildor. That should be
interesting. Erestor’s met him a few times, did I tell you? Ereinion
wasn’t clear about what he’d teach me – he said something about self
discipline. He would say that, of course.”



“Bit of self discipline couldn’t hurt,” his brother said a little
caustically, getting out of bed and going to open the drapes. He took
a look at the slate grey sky, pulled a face and went back to spend a
last few minutes within the warmth of the bedcovers.



Apparently Elrond was experiencing one of his periodic enthusiasms,
which Elros usually found exhausting. He was unsure whether to be
relieved or saddened that these occurred with less frequency as they
grew older, a result of regular disillusion and regret. Dragging back
a share of the blankets, he wrapped them round himself as best he
could and attempted to restore some balance.



“You know, if anyone else had suggested this you would be throwing a
tantrum. Glorfindel opens his mouth and you act as though he speaks
eternal truth…”



“Oh Ros, that’s not fair. I listened because he was right, that’s
all. I don’t have to like Círdan, he doesn’t have to like me, we just
have to be polite. He has to teach and I have to learn.”



Elros gave him a level, expressionless look and tried a different
approach. “Have you discussed it with Erestor?” he asked.



“Why would I do that?” Frowning, grey eyes narrowing.



“Oh, I don’t know, just to see what he thinks. You say he’s lived
quite a varied life, he should have an opinion of sorts – and it
might be less biased.”



“Biased?”



“Gil usually agrees with Glorfindel, it’s becoming a habit. I’m
sorry, Ro, but Glorfindel’s indulging in a bit of Aman logic. They
look at things differently to us, and you know it. What worries me
most is that I won’t be here to help soon, and you seen to think he
can do no wrong…”



It was not meant to sound bitter, but it did. Elrond had looked to
his calmer, more reasoned brother for advice and guidance for most of
their lives and while Elros had felt no discomfort when his twin had
finally begun accepting Gil-galad, who was a relative as well as High
King, as an authority, the newly-arrived Glorfindel was another
matter.



Elrond studied his brother thoughtfully. The slight edge had been
there before at mention of Glorfindel. Out of the corner of his eye,
he saw Laslech half rise and edge forward a little, bringing herself
wholly into the room but far enough from the bed not to invite
attention. Elros felt dogs had no place in the bedroom and seemed to
believe she slept in the little hallway that led through to the main
body of the Palace as he had intended when he had first been given
her. This arrangement had lasted no more than a few hours because,
remembering too many confusing, frightening nights surrounded by
strangers, Elrond had fetched her to his room where she had slept
ever since, on a rug in the corner.



He leaned forward bonelessly to relax against his brother’s legs and
reached over to pull the covers clear of Elros’ face so that they
could look at one another clearly.



“What possible reason could you have to not like Glori?”



Elros sat up against the headboard, pushing braids impatiently behind
his ears. “I don’t dislike him, Ro. I’ve not spent much time with
him, but he’s pleasant enough when you can get him to talk. The
problem is, you seem to think him incapable of making mistakes and I
doubt he knows you nearly well enough to be making life altering
choices for you.”



Elrond gave him a puzzled look. “Glori makes mistakes, lots of them.
He’s sleeping with Ereinion – there’s nothing smart about that. But I
trust him. He’s honest, and when he gives advice it’s good.”



“I just don’t want you to agree blindly to every suggestion he makes,
that’s all. We might be able to write occasionally, but I will be too
far away to give advice. You have to start sorting things out
yourself, not just find someone else to ask for help.”



Elrond sat up, finally annoyed. Laslech, sensing his mood, sidled a
little closer. Her tail started to wag by reflex but she stilled it,
very aware that she had crossed the invisible line into the
forbidden. “Then do you have a better suggestion? If I have this
…this power, then I need to be able to contain it. Who would you
suggest in place of Círdan?”



Elros frowned, his forehead crinkling. His skin was no longer as
smooth as it had once been but, to Elrond’s mind, this simply gave
him character. “I don’t know. Why do you have to be ‘trained’? I
never heard of that before – you just grow into it naturally,
surely?”



“Of course not, not things like farspeech and the like,” Elrond shot
back at him. “You just don’t hear much about it because Elves born
since the Return can’t usually do such things. Of course, we have to
be different. Like Maedhros used to say when I upset him – we’re
mongrels, totally unlike anyone else.”



He relaxed back onto the bed, smiling to himself at some memory. “And
I don’t want to sort it out myself. If you don’t have a better idea,
I’ll just have to put up with Círdan’s disapproval. I have no wish to
find myself inside Galadriel’s head again.”



“Out of here, now. Right now!” Elros suddenly yelled, sitting up and
swinging his arm to point at the door. Elrond started, then realised
this was directed at Laslech, who had crept right up to the bed while
they were talking. Knowing she had broken one of the primary rules in
her world, she got up immediately and trotted out of the room,
stopping at a point well beyond the doorway, but where she could
still keep Elrond in view.



He compressed his lips slightly and glanced at Elros out of the
corner of his eye, but his brother was already settling back down and
there was little point in saying anything. He had no wish to mar
their last few days or weeks with arguments. He guiltily pushed back
his concern about how the dog would fare in her new home. She was a
dog; he should be worrying about his brother.



“Well, she knows not to come into the bedrooms,” Elros pointed out in
what he felt was a reasonable tone but which sounded suspiciously
like a justification. Elrond nodded wordlessly. He thought it best
not to mention that not only did she sleep in his room, but that she
was also in fact allowed to get on his bed in the morning to say
hello.





----------





Around mid morning Gil-galad was informed that his aunt had arrived
in the Palace as requested and was waiting to see him. The fire in
his sitting room had been lit early to fend off the encroaching
winter gloom, and upon entering he was unsurprised to find Galadriel
standing before it, still wrapped against the outdoor chill in a
voluminous, fur trimmed cloak. Despite their kind’s natural
resistance to extremes in temperature, every Elf he had ever met who
had crossed the Helcaraxë disliked being cold. Glorfindel, whose skin
seemed always warm to the touch, was no exception.



“You wished to see me, Ereinion?”



Galadriel only addressed him formally in public or in the presence of
outsiders. Normally this was something he liked, as it gave him a
comfortable sense of family, but today it grated.



“I thought we should discuss Elrond,” he told her without preamble.
Well, he saw no need for the small talk, which she professed to
despise. He had seen her the previous night; her health was always
excellent, if something had befallen her mate he would have been
told, and she would not have come if all had not been well with the
babe – his heir if male, though instinct told him this was a girl-
child.



She inclined her head. “Elrond and I have talked, yes. He tells me he
wants to be a healer.” She said it in an amused voice, as though
quoting the wishes of a child who would know better with age. Gil-
galad frowned at her.



‘Yes, he’s been interested in that for some time. I’m arranging for
him to have some training, see if he takes to it.”



She raised a fine, exquisitely shaped eyebrow, then shrugged
gracefully. “As you wish. He has skill there, I sense. It can do no
harm.”



“As for the other things you want him to learn….”



“Ah.”



He had her attention; this was what she had come to discuss. Well, he
though, she might not like what she was about to hear. Gil-galad
understood his aunt better than most. Royal, ambitious; if she could
not rule, she would mould. And as he was not open to her guidance –
Círdan had been enough – he suspected she had been looking around for
other work to turn her hand to. She reminded him of his father, never
still, always busy with some project. The final one had led to the
destruction of Nargothrond.



“Elrond’s young, his heritage is – unusual, and I feel this needs to
be managed carefully,” he said. She was staring into the fire,
standing very still. He went and sat on the arm of a nearby chair,
trying discreetly to remind her of the difference in their rank even
though he felt uncomfortable seated while she remained standing.



“I discussed it with Glorfindel, and we’re agreed that Círdan would
be the best choice. His skills differ to those developed in the West,
and this should make him more flexible, more aware that there are
different paths that can be followed. As Elrond’s gifts are likely to
be his legacy from Melian, this will be invaluable.”



He paused, then decided he might as well tell her the rest, hoping
that the inclusion of another family member would mollify the growing
outrage he saw on her face. “Later I think he should spend some time
with Gildor – the mind and body disciplines he teaches might have
future value and he has no political objectives. There’s no rush.
When Elrond feels ready it will be time enough. And right now he is
far from ready.”



“Gildor?” she asked flatly. “Gildor Inglorion? That gypsy?”



“The same,” he agreed equably, inwardly flinching from the gathering
storm he sensed was about to break about him.



“But that is absurd!” she exclaimed, swinging round to glare at him,
her eyes blazing. “And as for Círdan – I can hardly believe
Glorfindel would be so irresponsible. I offer no disrespect to the
abilities of one who woke here in the time before the Summons, but
Elrond’s potential is too varied, too vast to be left to someone who
has not studied these matters. As you suggest, his power is not
wholly Elven… No, Ereinion, absolutely not. I studied with Melian;
these are things no one is better qualified to teach him than me.”



Gil-galad shook his head firmly. “I don’t question the need for
training, but in the absence of one of the Maia, I believe Círdan is
the best choice to guide him. All else aside, he can be relied on not
to encourage Elrond to fly too high, too soon – something I am not
convinced you would be able to resist, to be honest.”



He was not about to admit that he saw her point, that when Glorfindel
had suggested all this he had been more than a little dubious. He had
been as much startled as surprised when Elrond had agreed, and had
uneasily wondered what the response would have been had anyone else
put forward the idea. He rose and went over to her, making his tone
conciliatory.



“I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, aunt, but he had no grounding in
these matters from Maglor, and your approach unsettled him badly. In
any event, it’s out of your hands now. Elrond is my responsibility,
and I’ll decide as I think best for him.”



Galadriel stood silent, her head tilted to one side as though
listening to something. Gil-galad suddenly become aware of a coolness
in the room, a sense of power moving through the stillness, and
waited. He lacked many of the more common Elven gifts, but in their
place had something of inestimable value – he could perceive power
and energy being manipulated and bent to the will of others, yet it
could hold no sway over him. He had walked through dark shadows that
would have cowed or ensnared another Elf and had remained unscathed.
This, however, was less perilous; Galadriel had the gift of farsight,
and he waited with interest to discover what she saw.



“He remains your responsibility for a time only, son of my brother,”
she said quietly, turning to him, her strange, sea-hued eyes looking
into a time and place closed to him. “The destiny of the Peredhel
will remain your concern for your lifespan, but when the time comes
for Eärendil’s son to fulfill his destiny, he will stand alone. He
will need wisdom and strength far beyond your imaginings when that
time arrives.”



Gil-galad felt a rush of heat spread out from the pit of his stomach,
though his skin felt like ice. Galadriel was speaking from some place
between worlds, and he knew he could hardly blame her for simply
telling him what she saw. Even if that appeared to relate to his
death, the only logical explanation for his absence in Elrond’s
future. Keeping his voice very even, therefore, he said softly, “Even
so, aunt, at this time responsibility for Elrond’s training remains
my concern, not yours. This is my final word, and in my Palace, in my
kingdom, that is sufficient.”



Galadriel came back abruptly from the place her thoughts had walked,
concern and distress beginning to form on her face. She reached out
an instinctive hand to him, no longer the prophetess, once more his
aunt.



“Ereinion, I’m sorry, the words were ill-chosen. I often see things
without understanding their context. This was simply one of those
times…”



He took her hand and brought it lightly to his lips, shaking his head
and forcing an easy smile. “Things happen as they will. Don’t worry,
I won’t live my life in fear of words or pictures seen in the depths
of my hearth fire, any more than I can allow them to decide Elrond’s
future.”



Galadriel wrapped her arms around him, holding him close to her,
shivering slightly. She was tall, almost Glorfindel’s height, he
realised. He returned the hug reflexively, and was almost amused to
find he seemed to be the one offering comfort. He stepped back after
a minute and put his hands on her shoulders and looked down into her
worried face.



“You may have seen and spoken clearly, but I choose to believe this
is something that will prove to have a less dark explanation. Put it
from your mind, for the babe’s sake if for no other reason. This is
not a time for you to worry unnecessarily.”



She nodded slowly, her face still troubled. “Whatever I saw, it was
in a time and place far from here,” she confirmed. “And your absence
may have been due to any one of a number of reasons. Ereinion, no
matter how strong our disagreements, we remain family. Be certain I
would never ill wish you…”



He shook his head. “No aunt, I know that,” he reassured her, giving
her shoulders an affectionate squeeze before releasing her. “And I’m
sorry about Elrond, but I really think this will be the best way
forward for him.”



Bidding her enjoy the warmth of his rooms, and adding an invitation
for her to share the midday meal with him, he took his leave of her.
Just before he closed the door, he saw her draw the cloak close about
her and rest a hand on her belly as though seeking comfort from the
child within.





----------



He wandered through the Palace after leaving Galadriel, trying to
order his thoughts, and was on the final flight of steps leading up
to the roof before he again took note of his surroundings. He seldom
visited the area above the Healers’ rooms where, on warm days,
patients were encouraged to spend time sitting in the sun in a
sheltered corner which had been outfitted with benches for this
purpose. It was one of Glorfindel’s favourite spots of late, and
right now it seemed as good a choice as any.



He stepped out onto the roof and almost immediately saw sunlight
glinting on golden hair. For a disoriented moment he thought it was
Galadriel, but then realised he had found the other golden blonde in
the Palace, Glorfindel.



He was leaning against a buttress and staring out over the farmlands,
the wind tugging at his clothes. Gil-galad walked up behind him and
slid his arms round his waist, resting his cheek against the
warrior’s hair. Glorfindel covered a hand with his own and leaned
back lightly against him. Gil-galad dropped his head slightly so that
his chin rested on a powerful shoulder.



“I never had someone to hold onto before,” he said with a half-
bemused smile.



“Something’s wrong?” Glorfindel asked, his light, clear voice warm
and concerned.



“Uh-uh.”



There seemed no point in mentioning it. If death came, it came. He
had been a soldier for most of his life, he had, unlike the majority
of his kind, long since come to terms with the possibility. No need
to concern those close to him. Perhaps he would share Galadriel’s
words one day, but not today, not until he could treat them as no
more than a reminder not to waste the time he was given. Instead he
stood holding Glorfindel in silence, idly watching people moving far
below while the wind whistled around them and the clouds scudded
across the sun and the never-ending voice of the ocean rose and fell
in the background.



Finally he drew Glorfindel round to face him, holding him by the hips
while the warrior’s hands moved automatically to rest on his
shoulders. “What could be wrong? I’m with you - the best place in all
the world,” he said, speaking more seriously than he had intended.



Glorfindel reached up to stroke Gil’s face lightly before taking it
gently between his hands and looking searchingly into his eyes. “You
won’t tell me what troubles you?” he asked, his tone disappointed.



Gil-galad hesitated momentarily then shook his head. “No, it’s
nothing. I spoke with Galadriel as I said I would, and she has a way
of making you doubt yourself, question your future…”



“Let go of the doubt,” Glorfindel told him, his voice close and
intimate. “I will not let you doubt yourself. Trust me,” he added,
laughter in his eyes as he leaned forward and kissed Gil softly on
the lips, “I am even quicker than doubt.”



Gil-galad laughed with him, and slid his arms around his lover,
drawing him close. Bending, he claimed the sweetly curved mouth in a
slow, deep kiss, putting Galadriel’s hints of a foreshortened future
into a quiet corner of his mind where they would stay unless or until
a day came when they would have relevance.





* * * * *





Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 17/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: A time for all things...

Beta: iyle_elf





Chapter 17





The palace at Lindon, the building of which had begun at the end of
the War of Wrath when it finally became possible for a King to live
in security on the mainland once more, sat upon a promontory
overlooking the Gulf of Lhûn, its pale rose granite walls glowing
softly under both sun and moonlight. The land upon which it was built
stood elevated above the shoreline, the grounds ending abruptly in a
sharp drop down to the rocks below. It was not a single structure but
an interconnected group of buildings making up a sprawling, many-
faceted complex.



The stables, as well as the barracks housing the core companies of
Gil-galad’s substantial army, were on the east side of the complex,
where the land sloped down to sea level, giving access to a narrow
beach, while on the opposite side there was a small, busy harbour
that provided fish and trading goods for the fast-growing town that
had sprung up in this area of implied safety.



Mithlond, Círdan’s haven, the closely guarded anchorage where the
ships that carried the Eldar into the West were built and maintained,
lay some distance to the east at the mouth of the Lhûn, whilst across
the bay was Harlond, the main trading port of Harlindon. The great,
deepwater harbour at Forlond lay within sight of the open sea, more
than a day’s ride from the palace on the recently constructed road
that followed the coast down from Mithlond. Here, under the
protection of Elven warriors, ships were being built that would carry
the Second born Elven allies of Arda to their newly created haven on
the island of Númenor. 





----------





“How would you like to take a ride up the coast to Forlond?



“Forlond? The port?” Glorfindel didn’t turn his head as he spoke, his
eyes remaining on the quartet of attractive, brightly-clad dancers
who were whirling in intricate patterns, their movements blending
seamlessly with the accompanying music of drum and flute.



The evening meal was long past and the central courtyard of the
palace had undergone its regular transformation into a gathering
place for conversation, music and song. Tonight, dancers from the
south were entertaining the palace residents, accompanied by their
own small troupe of musicians. They were dressed in flowing layers of
multi-coloured clothing made from a filmy material and were draped in
jewellery which caught the light enticingly with every move.



Glorfindel was sitting on a low wall on the Hall side of the
courtyard, a spot which was usually the King’s preferred vantage
point when he had time to join the evening’s festivities. Gil-galad
nodded as he joined him, giving the blonde’s shoulder a quick shake
to wrest his attention away from the dancers.



“It’s a little over a day’s slow ride down the coast. Nice scenery,
an overnight stop under the stars as becomes elves, pleasant
company…”



Glorfindel slanted him a glance under dark gold lashes. “And?” he
asked. Gil-galad raised an eyebrow, which was met with a disbelieving
smile. “No, I know you. You don’t go for pleasure trips down the
coast. Why would we be going to Forlond?”



Gil-galad sighed softly, his face growing serious. “Because I have
business there and I would enjoy your company on the road.”



Glorfindel turned and studied him for a moment and then nodded. “The
ships for Númenor are being built there. It’s time, isn’t it?”



The dark head nodded slowly. “Yes, it’s time. I told Elros earlier. I
wanted to see the two of them together, but Elrond was nowhere about
and Elros seemed disinclined to wait till I found him.”



His companion gestured wordlessly over to where a small knot of young
Elves sat. They were in shadow, but once he turned his attention to
them, Gil-galad could see that the group included Elrond who was
sitting close to a slender, black haired Elf he recognised after a
moment as Erestor. The dog was with them, sitting up straight and
apparently watching the dancers in the cleared, torchlit area off to
the side. Glorfindel and Gil-galad exchanged glances. “Should I call
him for you?” the blonde asked, making as though to rise. The King
put a hand lightly on his arm, halting him.



“Let it be. I think Elros wanted to tell him personally.”



Glorfindel, knowing the full tale behind the choice that would take
Elros over the sea and out of their lives forever, wondered if he
simply preferred to give his twin the news in private, without having
to pick his words. For a moment it was on his lips to share what he
knew with Gil-galad, even though there would be no help he could
offer at this late stage, but the story had been shared in
confidence. He hoped that one day Elrond would see fit to tell his
cousin. After much thought, he was beginning to agree with him and
with Galadriel that blind faith in the Valar and their messenger
might be less than wise.



Gil-galad took advantage of the surrounding shadows to lean against
Glorfindel in a manner that he hoped would appear to any observers as
nothing more than innocently affectionate, and interrupted his
musings by asking, “So…would you be interested in joining us? I need
to be present as a mark of friendship to the travellers, and on a
personal level I want to wish Elros well. I thought you might like
the chance to see something of Lindon beyond the town and its
surrounds. Perhaps you can persuade Eönwë to tell you the direction
your life should take.”



Glorfindel flashed him an intimate look and, smiling softly, returned
the pressure, his fingers briefly stroking Gil-galad’s wrist. “From
what I’ve heard, I very much doubt that,” he told the King,
remembering Galadriel’s words. “But I would like to wish Elros well
and see the fleet sail. And I would be happy to go with you
anywhere.”





----------





It was the day before he was due to leave, and Elros walked slowly
through the palace grounds, eating a peach he had picked up as he
passed through the kitchens. He had no idea if there would be peaches
in Númenor, his future home, but he was certain they would never
taste quite as good as these last fruits of Lindon’s summer. He had
been wandering the palace and grounds for hours, alone with his
thoughts. Each time he spotted someone he knew he changed direction,
seeking solitude. He was saying goodbye to the only settled home he
had known since childhood.



At the end of the War they had come to live in the unprepossessing
Hall that Gil-galad then proceeded to transform into a palace that
was unlike the seat of any Noldor King before him. From the start
Elros had been the anomaly, the Half-elf who was more Man than Elf
and who would one day leave to join the Secondborn, to rule a land
being created as a gift for people who were strangers to him, yet
over whom he would be King. From the beginning his days had been
filled, at the insistence of the Herald, with leaning lore and ethics
and the skills of a ruler. He was an obedient, attentive student,
unlike his brother whose concentration at times mirrored that of a
kitten, moving swiftly from one bright, shiny distraction to another.
However, the choice had been his, not Elrond’s, and he did his best
to fit himself to fill the role he had taken upon himself.



He had tutors, he had advisors, he had Círdan talking to him about
responsibility and duty and occasionally seamanship, he had lessons
in the arts, in languages. He studied history, and the various forms
of government that Men had so far devised, and he was drilled in the
laws which had been decided upon for the Men of Númenor by the Valar
themselves.



He learned a little more about sword craft, although nowhere near as
much as Elrond. Although Maedhros himself had said he showed promise,
he was not going to be that kind of King, sword-bearing, armour clad,
riding against the enemies of his people. He was being trained to be
an administrator, not a hero.



After a time, Gil-galad had turned his attention to the regime
decided upon by Eönwë, and had found it wanting. He went through the
order of lessons personally, shook his head, and marked in times
during which Elros would take a break so that they could go riding or
hunting, and weekly sessions during which they would discuss Elros’
progress.



These sessions in fact turned out to be afternoons given over to
casual conversation about what he had learned and how he would apply
it to whatever problem the King currently faced. As far as possible,
Gil-galad took the theory of the week’s lessons and helped him put it
into practice, making it come alive. To begin with Elros’ choices
were uncertain, but his errors were brought to his attention with
humour and courtesy, and he soon developed a style that was all his
own.



Gil-galad’s other intervention was in a matter that neither the
Herald nor Círdan had considered. Occasionally at first, then with
growing regularity, he had Men visit Lindon specifically to meet and
get to know their future king. After a few years, he arranged for
Elros to spend a few months of each year visiting his former guests,
getting used to the likes, dislikes, norms and values of those over
whom he would rule. Elros knew Eönwë was less than content with this,
but until the ship sailed he was under Gil-galad’s authority and
could safely leave the Maiar’s displeasure to him. It was a secure
choice. For no discernable reason, Gil-galad detested Eönwë.



As the years passed, Elros was expected to visit Forlond regularly,
ostensibly to keep abreast of the progress being made with the fleet
but, more importantly, to meet with and be assessed by the Herald.
These were uncomfortable meetings for Elros, with a being who would
always remind him of the strange pavilion on the beach and the day
life had changed irrevocably. He was polite to the messenger of the
Shining Ones, no more, and nothing more was expected of him. His job
was to go to Númenor, rule, produce an heir, grow old and die. So
long as he did these things efficiently and in the correct order, all
was well with Eönwë.



He had lived these years as neither one thing nor another, avoided
for the most part by the Elves who sought out his brother, who was
the King’s default heir and, as such, desirable company. He, on the
other hand, was regarded as a being of mystery amongst those with
whom he instinctively identified, set apart by the training he was
receiving and the months he spent with Ilúvatar’s younger children
who, for their part, regarded him primarily as an Elf, and far from
being one of them.



He often resented the studies that left no time to try and prove to
others that he was as Elven in his ways as his brother, but he
learned to be grateful to Gil-galad for insisting he spend sufficient
time amongst Men to be able to speak their common tongue with the
barest of accents and to have a good grasp of the rules that applied
at the dinner table and at social gatherings. Without this grounding
he acknowledged now that he would have been lost even before he
reached Númenor.



His wanderings had led him to the little ornamental lake near the
guest houses on the town side of the palace. Normally he preferred
the small harbour which was used mainly for fishing, trade and sea
transport between the coastal towns, but he would soon be seeing
enough of the ocean. Right now he wanted to look at calm order,
preferably with an Elven flair to it. He had always liked the lake.
He and Gil-galad often came here to talk, to the extent that they had
a favourite spot, a bench situated under a well-established willow
tree.



He would miss his cousin. Far more than Elrond could, Gil-galad
understood what he faced and did as much as possible to prepare him.
He preferred not to think about missing his brother. When he finally
told him that the time had arrived, Elrond had sat looking at him out
of still, dark eyes, that uncontrollable hair falling over his face,
one hand reaching halfway towards him before it was withdrawn. They
had an unspoken agreement that there would be no sentiment, that they
would do what had to be done, but for a moment he had a sense of how
empty his life would be without this quicksilver presence, so like
him yet so utterly opposite.



He looked out over the lake, trying to fix the memory of it in his
mind, as he had found himself doing all day with favourite people and
places, while in the back of his mind he heard the cool, emotionless
voice telling him of the perfected land that was being prepared, a
place of security and beauty, far superior to anything to be found on
this shore, and he found his eyes were blurring with unwelcome tears,
despite his promise to himself that there would be no more.



He was so wrapped in his thoughts that he failed to hear the light
footfalls on the grass and the first he was aware of not being alone
was when she sat down on the bench beside him. Galadriel was dressed
in pale blue, a light cloak around her shoulders although the weather
was warmer than it had been for some days. Her exquisite hair was
bound back from her face for once, held in a net studded with tiny
sapphires.



“You treat this upheaval with a grace that brings your foremother to
mind,” she said quietly. “I saw you walking and thought you might
feel the need for company for a short time. I will not ply you with
needless questions or empty platitudes, I promise.”





He opened his mouth to respond but she shook her head and settled
back on the bench, her hands resting lightly on her belly. They sat
in silence for a while, and then she reached over and took his hand
and held it firmly in hers and he knew she knew. He turned to her,
unshed tears standing in his grey eyes and said softly, “I don’t want
to leave home, Lady, I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to die.”



She nodded calmly. “Of course not,” she agreed. “The Gift is a matter
of violence and horror to us and we fear and avoid it, even though we
know that we will almost certainly be reborn eventually in Aman.
However, your new kindred measure time very differently to us, and
the Gift is the reward the One sends them at the end, when the body
is tired and worn and all labours are complete. For you, age will
come slowly and with dignity, and eventually you will know when it is
time to leave.”



He found he was holding onto her hand like a child listening to a
tale of magic and, childlike, he softly asked the question he had
never before dared speak aloud.



“Does it hurt?”



She smiled and shook her head and reached over to touch his cheek. He
wondered vaguely if she would notice that it was no longer as soft
and smooth as Elven skin should be, but in her eyes was nothing but
tenderness, an expression seen by few save her mate and closest kin.
“At the last you will lie down and sleep and, sleeping, your féa will
pass to the place where the inner selves of the Second born go. No
pain, just a sense of rightness.”



She rose and he followed, turning to face her. She took his face
between her long, slender hands and, leaning forward, kissed him very
gently on the forehead. “When that time comes at the last, remember
today and think of Galadriel,” she said softly. “I will be waiting in
the shadowplace between worlds to watch with you as you set out on
that final journey. For now though, let go of fear, child. A long,
full life lies ahead of you before then. Live it well.”



And with a smile of infinite sweetness that Elros would carry in his
heart as a wall against the darkness, Finarfin’s daughter turned in a
swirl of soft blue and the scents of spring and left him to his
thoughts.





----------





Elrond pulled Laslech down beside him under ‘his’ tree and settled
close against the trunk, trying to find some protection from the wind
which had returned in the early evening. The dog, seeing home
directly ahead, made a few attempts to get up and go indoors in
search of water and sheltering warmth, but eventually subsided and
lay obediently beside him. Elrond sat running his fingers over her
head and back, trying to keep his mind empty.



While Elros had spent the day alone, prowling their home, locking up
memories, Elrond had been left to his own devices. He had finally
taken Laslech and gone down to the section of the beach that was
regarded as an extension of the barracks training ground. Laslech
loved the beach. She could run free, sticks were thrown – Elrond
always remembered to collect a few along the way – and with luck
there might be birds to chase too.



They were soon interrupted, however, when a group of trainees came
down and they were asked to leave. Glorfindel had been busy, Ereinion
had passed him at some point with a comment about dogs and leads
although he showed no inclination to enforce it, and Erestor was
nowhere to be found.



In the afternoon he took a decision he had been working his way
around to for a while and, tracking down his twin said without
prelude, “Ros, I know you have other things on your mind, but I need
to talk to you about Laslech.”



For a moment his twin looked blankly at him, then the name fell into
place and he sighed and put on what Elrond had always thought of as
his ‘listening’ expression, which usually meant he was doing anything
but. He had kept quiet till now because a nameless discomfort told
him that this conversation would fail to deliver the desired result,
but he took a breath and pressed on regardless.



“She was an odd choice for a gift, and I know that you have no time
for a dog right now, and I’ve tried to look after her for you…”



“Of course you have and I really am grateful even if I don’t usually
say as much. I know you put a lot of time into trying to train her
for me…”



“Ros, can I keep her?” There, it was said.



Elros stared at him blankly then shook his head briefly as though to
clear it. “Elrond, I’m sorry, I know you’ve become fond of her, but I
can’t,” he said finally. “She was a gift and those who chose her will
travel with me. It will look as though I thought her not…good enough.
I’m sorry, brother, there is no way that I can leave her behind. She
will be well cared for, I promise. Very few Men would trust a king
who neglected his dog, after all.”



Elrond ignored the twist of the lip or the bleak look in his
brother’s eyes. He was too busy swallowing back his instinctive
response to having his request dismissed so casually. Succeeding, he
nodded, shrugging off the plea as no more than a passing thought, and
turned the conversation to what time Elros and his escort would be
leaving.



Laslech, who disliked the wind and had been cooperative for long
enough, got up, shook herself thoroughly, and trotted across to the
tiny patio and in through the half open door without a backward
glance to see if her companion followed, leaving Elrond alone. He sat
for a while pulling idly at the grass and thinking about nothing in
particular. What he really wanted, needed, was to talk to Glorfindel,
but the hour was late and he lacked the nerve to go so far as to
disturb Gil-galad and what was probably passing between them.
Finally, seeing no other option, he rose and followed his brother’s
dog indoors.



He went through to Elros’s room with some idea of saying goodnight
and sharing any other thoughts that might follow, though there was
really nothing left to say after all this time, but Elros was already
in bed and no longer awake. After a moment, Elrond settled quietly at
the end of the bed and, resting his chin on his drawn up knees,
watched his brother lost in sleep after the manner of the Secondborn,
eyes closed, lips parted. Presently he rose silently and went to
fetch a cushion and Laslech’s blanket.



Putting the blanket in the far corner of the room, he pointed her at
it silently, then resumed his place at the end of the bed, where he
sat and watched his brother’s face and waited for the dawn.





* * * * *





Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 18/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: Elrond: Elwing's Shadow.

Beta: Enismirdal





Chapter 18





S.A. 32 - Lindon



Elros left at first light, wrapped in furs against the cold which
affected him more than was natural for an Elf, a bag containing the
dearest of his treasures slung over his shoulder. Standing in the
doorway facing his twin, Elrond knew that he would never again see
himself mirrored back from another face in this manner, that no one
else shared the memories of the nightmare of their growing years, no
one else would remember him as a child. Elros reached out a hand,
eyes locked with his, and they shared the warrior’s greeting, two
clasps of hand to forearm and a meeting of palms, as they had seen it
offered while they were growing up in the Kinslayers’ camps. Elros
pulled his brother in for a quick, unaccustomed embrace, and for a
moment they clung as they had not done since childhood, then he
stepped back, nodded, mouthed ‘I’ll write’ and was gone.



Elrond had no idea if there would be anyone to deliver the letters,
but Elros’ faith in the generosity of others was similar to Maglor’s,
and he let it go.



Afterwards he sat staring at their untouched breakfast, listening to
the large, mounted party setting out from the palace. There were,
mixed in with the horses’ hooves, the sounds of the light wagons
which were carrying the baggage of the small party of Men who had
come up from Forlond to escort the new king to his fleet, plus the
final few items Elros had not sent on ahead. Like Laslech, confined
like a cat to a travelling cage.



When he was sure they were finally gone, Elrond went and changed out
of the leggings and shirt in which he had slept, pulled on casual
clothing and, remembering to avoid the place where he had kept the
dog’s lead, set off down the garden, looking neither left nor right.
The palace grounds ended in a swathe of grass which dropped away
abruptly in a steep though shallow cliff at the foot of which lay
rocks and then the sea. Elrond halted near the edge and stood staring
out over the water, his arms folded, hands clasping elbows, the
morning wind lifting and tossing his unbound hair around him like a
cloud of smoke.



Out over the sea, far in the West, a star hung low on the horizon,
visible even now in the early hours of daylight. It had been there
for the last few nights, growing brighter, brighter still, signalling
the readiness of the new land and laying a path of light across the
sea for the sailors to follow.



Elrond had no clear idea how it worked that his father sailed the
skies offering light in the darkness, and he didn’t much care. He was
out there, leading Elros to the Land of the Gift, into history and
exile. Last time they had needed a father’s intervention and
protection he had been sailing as well, on the sea instead of through
the night skies, always absent, leaving his family to fend for
itself.





----------





F.A 532 – Havens of Sirion



The other time, the night Eärendil’s presence might have rewritten
his family’s history, had been long ago and had set the course for
Elrond’s life. Sleeping on a still summer’s night, he and his twin
had been roused to unfamiliar, disturbing sounds by their mother
shaking them awake, her eyes dark with terror and memory. The Jewel,
the great heirloom of their House which had only been shown to them
once before, had been clasped around her neck, its otherworldly glow
drawing the eye, even in the dark.



“They’re here,” she was hissing, in a voice unlike her own. “The same
as last time…they are here, we’ll die, they will kill us. It will be
as it was last time, as they killed your uncles, your grandparents…”



She had hurried them from their beds, not giving them time even to
dress, taking their hands and leading them from the silent
bedchamber. She was barefoot, Elrond had noticed, and her hair, black
and shimmering, waved loose around her. Her feet barely seemed to
touch the cold flagstones of the passage.



“Why must we go outside?” Elros had asked, trying to slow her down,
get her to explain, but she had jerked his arm, forcing him on.
Elrond, an affectionate child, had been shocked that their mother
should be so rough and, fear starting to edge closer, had done his
best to keep up.



She had taken them out onto the main terrace, which was built high
above the water. This was a place where they were forbidden to play
alone as it was regarded as unsafe, since the railing was small and
delicate, meant for ornamentation, not protection. It was then that
he understood what he had heard on waking – there were sounds of
fighting coming from the houses below, even from the grounds of their
own home, and there were fires burning in places where no fires
should burn. He could hear voices raised, and the screams and cries
were clearer to the ear out in the open, under the clear, star
filled, moon bright sky.



He and Elros had stopped as one, trying to understand the
inexplicable. “The Kinslayers, Fëanor’s sons,” their mother had
gasped, her voice outlined with terror. “Maedhros is here, he must
not get us; he will kill us as he did Ada and Nana.” She had been
looking left and right as she spoke, her head darting like that of
one of the little birds she loved, seeking escape, safety.



“We can hide,” he had told her, pulling her hand. He and his brother
had been raised strangers to fear, but he was uncertain of this new
mother, this unknown, hunted being. “Come back inside…”



“He will not have it,” she whispered, not hearing him, not really
aware of them any longer. “He will soak his hand in blood for
eternity but he will not have it. Nor will he have me…my fate is of
my choosing, not his.”



She had spun round then, trying to grab hold of them both, draw them
to her, but Elros had darted back and Elrond, truly afraid of her at
last, had acted on instinct, bending to bite the wrist of the hand
that held onto him. She had made a small sound, releasing him, and
then one of her women had arrived. Thelenineth, who had fled with her
from Doriath, and whose husband sailed with their father, had
gathered the twins to her, crying in horror, “Lady, what are you
doing? Come, we must hide.”



And Dior’s daughter had drawn herself up, her eyes catching light
from the blazing Jewel, and she had cried, “I will not die at their
hands as my family did before me, I will not be sport for them. Give
me my sons, Thelenineth. This way is better, cleaner…do you not
remember what they did with my brothers? They left them to starve…”
Her voice had risen to a shriek, and the sound had drawn attention.
Footsteps could be heard pounding down the passage, someone screamed
in agony, and they had burst out into the night, a group of strangers
carrying the torches that had lit the entrance of Eärendil’s home,
tall Elves carrying blood-drenched swords, the foremost having hair
as red as glowing coals.



In Elrond’s memory what followed seemed somehow to have happened
slowly. Illuminated by torchlight, Elwing had turned and stared as
though transfixed at the red-haired Elf. She had remained absolutely
still for a moment, her hands raised to her face, then she had turned
to run, a hand holding the Jewel almost as though for comfort, pale
light spilling out between her fingers, and when she reached the
railing she leapt straight over it like a young deer. She was still
running as she tumbled slowly, slowly down to the water far below.



There had been shouting, Thelenineth and Elros had both been crying,
and they had been shoved roughly aside as the intruders rushed to the
edge. Standing unnoticed to one side, Elrond had soundlessly watched
the light marking the place where his mother had fallen, still
shining upwards from under the water. Even as the redhead shouted for
a boat to be readied, the light began to move out to sea at a speed
which, young as he was, Elrond knew to be at variance with the
strength of the tide.



Their mother had been mistaken as it turned out, they had not been
killed after all. While they were waiting for the party sent to find
Elwing’s body to come back and admit defeat, a tall Elf with night
dark hair and sad brown eyes had come over to them and said briefly
to the leader, “Let these two go. No more children, brother.”



The leader had glanced at them, huddled against Thelenineth,
shattered to silence and said, his expression grim, “They will grow,
brother, and draw followers to them, and we have enemies enough.”



His brother shook his head, his hand moving close to his sword hilt.
“These are mine. Do what you like with the rest, but these are mine.
There will be no more young voices in my mind, calling for their
mother and keeping me from my sleep.”



The leader had looked at him expressionlessly, then down at them, and
something had moved in his eyes - Elrond went back over that moment
many times over the years and could never decide if it had been
guilt, regret, sorrow – then he had said briefly, “The line breeds to
twins it seems. As you will, Maglor, but they come with us. I will
have no dagger for my ribs left here to be raised by Círdan and the
new so-called High King. I had only one interest here – and that
bitch has taken it from us.”



Fëanor’s remaining sons had not found Elwing, nor the Silmaril, borne
out to sea by an unnatural tide to a place and destiny of the Valar’s
choosing. They took in their place Eärendil’s sons, Dior’s heirs, and
faded back into the wild places from whence they had come.





----------





S.A 32 - Lindon



The day proceeded in an ordinary and uneventful manner, though to
Elrond the palace always felt different when the King was absent, as
though there was an unfilled space somewhere, a quietness. Gil-galad
involved himself in the day to day details of the running of his
household in a sporadic sort of way, just enough for the staff to
feel he was interested, not enough for it to be seen as interference.
In his absence things went along as they always did, though
accompanied by an air of waiting.



Elrond kept moving. Motion held thought at bay, distracted him from
the reality of going back to an empty apartment, took his mind off
the absence of the bright, inquisitive presence that no longer kept
pace beside him. Elwing’s son had experience in dealing with loss,
his life had been drenched in it.





----------





late F.A., various camps



From the day he had been untied from the horse and put down in the
camp full of Elves who spoke a different tongue, who were rough in
their treatment of him and his brother, and whose armour and weapons
were all too well used, he had learnt not to let them see his heart.
While Elros tried to conform so that he would keep terror at bay
through obedience, Elrond had simply pretended he didn’t care. Not
about the lack of food, not about the lack of kindness, not about the
loss of mother and father, certainly not about the weary, saddened,
ever-hopeful Elf who had taken them into his care.



Maglor, drawing on memories of the needs of his younger brothers at
their age, had kept them fed and clothed, and had even attempted
something in the way of education. More importantly in such troubled
times, he was their protector, on two occasions facing his own
brother down over a drawn sword when Elrond’s tongue went too far.
Maglor it was who had taught them their lineage and to be proud of
it, reminding his brother when questioned that these were the great
grandsons of Turgon of Gondolin, and in respect to his memory should
be treated as such. This had worked well enough, though when he had
started teaching them the Song of Luthien, Maedhros had drawn the
line.



Through it all Elrond had treated Maglor with a cool suspicion that,
as he grew, had matured into a permanent battle of wits between them.
He had shown no gratitude to the tired, disillusioned Elf, offered no
thanks for care and protection or for the glorious voice raised in
song on the nights when fear walked close and sleep refused to come.
Maglor had taken them into his care without reservation, and in
public Elrond showed him the respect that was his due, at all times
keeping the thoughts of his heart to himself.



When they had parted, when Elros had been close to weeping and had
embraced their protector as a father, Elrond had held himself
straight and proud as he had been taught, and nodded when Maglor told
him he would be in touch when things settled down, not believing but
nodding anyway. There were no words of love or regret. He had not
told his mother he loved her, after all. His farewell to her had been
his teeth to her wrist, an act of horror that played over and over in
his mind, and he would give no more to others than he had to her.



Maglor had watched them depart, his face unreadable, though there was
aching loneliness and regret in his dark eyes. Now, he too was gone,
wandering Middle-earth in shame and despair said some, dead said
others, the final victim of his father’s Oath. Gone from him as Elros
had gone, as his mother and his father before her had gone, as the
dog was gone…





----------





S.A 32 - Lindon



Elrond pursued a busy but unexceptional day comprised of a double
session of combat training, plus an hour with the bow, visits to the
barracks and harbour to see what was going on, and several hours
listening to Arthiel, one of the healers, as she explained the
various ways to set a broken arm. The only unusual event involved an
encounter he had near the steep flight of steps cut into the
cliffside that led down to the harbour, an informal shortcut from the
palace. He was crossing the grounds on his way back to lunch when he
was hailed by Lord Círdan, who he had believed to be in Forlond
waiting for the new King of Numenor.



There was no way to avoid the summons so he went over to the Gil-
galad’s mentor, who was wearing plain brown leggings and tunic and an
elderly looking dark green cloak. His hair was tied back in the way
of the seaman, which naturally drew attention to his beard. Elrond
found the beard interesting, though knew he was in the minority
there. He could only suppose it appealed to some thread of his mortal
ancestry. He assumed Beren had worn a beard. Tuor, he had been told,
shaved daily in an attempt to fit in with the beardless Elves amongst
whom he lived for most of his life.



“Hîren?” he asked, sketching a show of politeness as he had assured
Gil-galad and, more importantly, Glorfindel that he would.



Círdan surveyed him thoughtfully but kept his council. “I expected
you to have ridden with your brother this morning?”



Elrond’s face went bland as a sheet of virgin parchment. “We said our
goodbyes already. There was no point in dragging it out in front of
an audience.”



Círdan nodded slowly, accepting the reasoning as being flawed though
consistent. “If you have had a change of heart, I travel to the
Forlond now by water. I would be prepared to wait for you…”



Elrond shook his head. “No thank you, Hîren. There’s no need for
that.”



Círdan inclined his head. “In that case, I will be on my way. When I
return we could perhaps spend a few hours discussing what it is you
wish to learn from me? Gil-galad was far from clear, other than the
fact that he had no wish for you to study with Galadriel, with which
I concur. Did you have any objective beyond controlling your
abilities?”



Elrond sensed this was an important question, though he had no idea
of the ‘right’ answer so he opted for simplicity. “I just want to
make sure things stop happening by accident. Beyond that I’ve not
thought. I wondered if you could tell me what was possible, then I
could decide.”



Círdan looked almost pleased, if that were possible. “We can
certainly discuss that when I return. It seems a sensible place to
begin.” He moved towards the steep stairs then paused and turned
back. “Was there anything you would like me to take to your brother?
Something he or you may have forgotten?”



It was on the tip of Elrond’s tongue to say that Elros already had
the best gift he could give him in Laslech, then, unbidden, the
instinct that had nagged at him on several occasions in the last
weeks returned, the feeling that he should give his brother the one
item belonging to their family that referred to their mortal ancestry
– Beren’s ring, the Ring of Barahir. From earliest childhood they had
both been fascinated by the tale of how it had passed from Finrod
through their great grandfather Beren and thence, finally, to them,
and Elros had in particular been drawn to it. However, hurt about
Laslech, and believing the treasury of a House of Men was no place
for an Elven heirloom, Elrond had kept silent.



The emotions that waged across his face brought Círdan, who had been
concerned at the icy control he had been witnessing, back from the
top of the steps. “If you wish to fetch something, I will wait for
you,” he offered, his tone more gentle than he was accustomed to
using with this spirit of rebellion who put him so much in mind of
Lúthien, Thingol’s willful daughter.



“It’s in the Treasury, for safekeeping.” Elrond hesitated. “I would
have to get someone to unlock it for me and…”



Círdan sat down on a convenient tree stump, which had been left in
place as a seat offering a wonderful view over the harbour. It had
been a favourite spot of Elros’, Elrond remembered belatedly.



Get along and fetch it then, Círdan said equably




----------





The rest of the day had passed. Elrond had taken dinner with the
household instead of eating in his rooms and had wandered the gardens
for a time. He even thought of taking an evening ride along the
beach, but the sky had clouded over and the air had turned chill. The
only good thing about this, from his point of view, was that it
lessened the brilliance of Vingilot, still shining in the West.



He went home by his usual route, along the terrace, through the
garden, and down to the private entrance which Gil-galad had offered
as the right of all young Elves. Elrond had the idea it was something
he would have liked himself at their age. It was full dark. Erestor
would already have come and gone, as no doubt he had in the morning
when Elrond had been looking out over the sea. Someone had
thoughtfully lit a lamp, as he could see through the half closed
drapes, but the door had been left closed.



He went in and looked around, truly alone at last. The fire had been
lit, as were the lamps, and there were fresh flowers on the table. He
stood still for a long time before walking slowly through to Elros’
room. Which was no longer his brother’s room. It had been
transformed, and now bore the unoccupied appearance of a guest
bedroom. There was no trace of his twin remaining. Up until then he
had been treating this as he would one of Elros’ visits to one of his
future councillor’s households. These would last for several weeks,
sometimes months, but the time would pass, bringing Elros back with
strange, interesting gifts and unlikely stories. Then, his personal
things had remained as he had left them, just somewhat neater. Now
they were gone.



Elrond stared at the spot on the bed where he had spent the night,
leaving before first light, before Elros could wake and find him, and
have the words from him that sat in his throat as they had for
Maglor, then he backed out of the room breathing carefully as though
he were in pain. He stood in the little hallway between their rooms,
his mind deliberately empty, then crossed over and opened the door to
his own bedroom.



The lamp had been lit in here too - some member of the staff feeling
sympathy for him, no doubt, and trying to make his empty home
somewhat more inviting. His room was as he had left it, of course,
just tidier. There were fresh flowers in here too. And Laslech’s
blanket had been, as always, shaken out and folded neatly back in
‘her’ corner. He stared at this for a long moment and then walked
over and bent to pick it up, with some disconnected thought about
putting it away. Instead he stood holding it loosely, staring down at
it.



To begin with, when she was a small puppy, she had developed a habit
of scratching the blanket up into what was almost a nest, attested to
by little loops and pulled threads. Later, as she grew, the need for
this seemed to subside, though he often woke to the sight of her
lying with her head half under a convenient fold. He had supposed it
gave her security. His hands tightened convulsively on the soft
fabric, then he took a deep breath and went to place it in the chest
in the corner which currently held his summer clothes.



The room felt cold somehow, constraining. Much of his life had been
spent in a place of emotional coldness, frozen since the night on the
terrace when he had hurt his mother to save himself from sharing her
fate. On the nights when he remembered those hours of horror he had
always gone to Ros, to whom he needed say nothing. Elros had kept his
eyes closed at the time and had not seen Elwing’s leap, and had cried
for his mother till his grief had quietened in the normal way of the
young. But he knew it was different for his brother and gave him the
comfort of his presence and small words about the events of the day
till the memories settled.



He had no awareness of leaving the room, of exiting the apartment
steeped in memories of his brother and his brother’s dog, and
laughter and talking into the night and arguments that passed like
summer lightning and secrets shared and dreams confided. All he knew
was that he was back in the garden, in the dark under the trees,
untouched by the light of the western star that was his father’s
great ship carrying the Jewel, and that he had nowhere to go. Gil-
galad, whose calm, solid presence was something he found he wanted
with a need that was almost physical, was with Elros, had always
preferred Elros anyway he suspected, and Glorfindel, as ever, was
with the King.



His body moved through the palace garden, up on the terrace, along
corridors, while his mind remained in a cold dark place, as it had
been the night his mother had stepped onto air, her hand clasping the
Silmaril, as it also had been when he had said goodbye to Maglor and
gone on to the unknown cousin who had been hunting for them for so
many years. As it had been when he had looked into his twin’s face
that morning and found no words to offer him, no tears to shed as his
brother left him to go on to honour and death. Elros was going to
die. He thought the words clearly for the first time, and in giving
them reality he had to accept them.



He looked around, to discover he was standing in the passage outside
a door somewhere in the staff quarters. He had only been here once
before, alone that time as well and drawn by his curiosity to find
out where room sixty-two was. That time he had left without knocking,
despite the fleeting temptation to do so. This time, too, he stood
with his hand raised for a few moments, somewhere between light and
dark, then watched as it reached out seemingly of its own accord and
knocked.



The door opened after a minute, before he had time to reconsider what
he had done and walk away, and Erestor stood there looking at him,
surprise crossing his face, followed by an almost-smile which slid
into concern. He was wearing a loose white shirt and dark leggings
and his hair hung over his shoulders like a fall of glossy black
satin, reaching to his waist. Behind him Elrond could see the room,
which looked very much as he might have expected. There were drapes
and wall hangings, and soft light from lamps under tinted covers. He
caught glimpses of cushions and two comfortable looking chairs, and
off to the side, under a rich russet cover and tastefully scattered
with cushions to make its presence less blatant, was the bed. He even
noticed and could identify a faint scent, citrus with spicy
undertones.



He brought his attention back to Erestor, who seemed to be saying
something, though he was finding it hard to follow words suddenly,
and he tried to explain this by holding out his hands and gesturing
helplessly. Then Erestor moved forward, reaching for him, and he was
brought close against a firm, slender body as strong arms went around
him and caught him as he was falling through coldness and held him
safe.



Erestor managed, by moving backwards slowly and carefully, to bring
them both into the room far enough for him to be able to close the
door, then stood still. After a time Elrond reached to put his arms
around his waist, and then, resting his cheek against Erestor’s
shoulder and turning his face in against his neck, he wept.





* * * * *





Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 19/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: The road to Forlond, and Erestor revisits his past.

Beta: Enismirdal, Red Lasbelin





Chapter 19





The cavalcade travelling along the coast road made an impressive
sight, accompanied as it was fore and aft by riders bearing the
standard of the High King, along with an assortment of other brightly
coloured banners and crests. These included the new colours of
Númenor, as well as the emblem of the House of the Golden Flower of
Gondolin. Their pace was leisurely, dictated largely by the presence
of wagons, which carried gifts selected by the High King and his
Council to be taken over the sea to the New Land as a token of
friendship, and the last few personal items Elros had been reluctant
to send on ahead. Amongst these, confined to her cage, was Laslech,
the new king’s dog.





----------





The road.



Glorfindel, not unexpectedly, enjoyed the journey to Forlond. Already
curious about the expansion of Lindon, he was fascinated by
everything along their route; the new settlements, the cultivated
fields, the orchards, the many signs of the beginnings of prosperity.
The early winter’s day was mild, with intermittent cloud and a fairly
brisk breeze, and the scents of sea and growing things combined with
the warmth of the sun on his back to give him a feeling of quiet
contentment.



He rode either alone or else alongside Dalbros, the senior librarian,
who was unaccustomed to travel, and was enthusiastically excited to
have been included in the party. He had been invited specifically to
record the details of this unprecedented event for inclusion in the
History of the Kingdom of Lindon which he had recently begun
compiling.



The party included a group of Men, mainly sons and younger brothers
of several of Elros’ councillors who, on an impulse born of youthful
high spirits, had travelled up from Forlond, wishing to provide a
welcoming escort for their uncrowned King. To Glorfindel’s amused
surprise, they got along far better with the assortment of Elven
councillors and nobles and the members of the strongly armed escort
of warriors than would probably have occurred under more formal
conditions



Gil-galad rode a little apart from the rest, apparently deep in
thought, not even speaking to Elros who rode in equal silence a short
distance behind him. Glorfindel discreetly watched the future king of
Númenor smile and speak to any who came to ride alongside him, but
the smile failed to touch his eyes and there was an air about him
that suggested company was tolerated rather than sought. Knowing how
this venture had been thrust upon him, the Elf from Gondolin could
hardly begin to imagine what might be going through his mind.





----------





Neither Men nor horses have the endurance of the Eldar, therefore
arrangements had been made for the party to pass the night in a
lightly wooded area just outside a small fishing village, which they
reached late in the afternoon. Those responsible for the travellers’
comfort had gone on ahead while the main party had stopped for lunch,
and by the time the King arrived, tented pavilions had been set up,
fires had been lit, and dinner preparations were already underway.



Glorfindel, having found his designated shelter, noticed that the
royal standard was in the process of being raised above Gil-galad’s
tent, and that guards had already been set at the entrance. He smiled
wryly. This was one night he and Gil would definitely be spending
apart.



To fill the time before dinner, he decided to explore the village,
taking with him a couple of sticks of charcoal and his new sketch
book, which was already half filled with rough drawings. Art had been
a much-loved pastime in his youth until curtailed by his father, who
insisted this was an unsuitable hobby for the son of a lord. He had
recently confided this to Erestor, whose response, within hours, had
been to present him with a variety of materials to experiment with
and on. Glorfindel found himself actually teasing the dark Elf,
suggesting that this ability to produce the unlikely at such short
notice displayed the makings of an exceptional quartermaster.



Which, in time, would prove to be true.



The village contained no more than a few dozen houses and a
blacksmith’s, all huddled around or close to a central square. A
small, open space near the little harbour was hedged with rosemary
and rowan and contained a circle of polished white stones, shoulder
high; this was obviously the village holy place. Glorfindel had heard
of this practice, which was rapidly growing up amongst the Sindar,
who in their turn had obtained it from the Silvan Elves. Despite it
being fashionable to mock such behaviour as unsophisticated, he
rather liked the idea of having a place set aside to go and give
thanks to the Shining Ones and to remember those lost during the
times of trouble.



He paused beside it, not liking to intrude in a place that was not
his own, and, closing his eyes briefly, made his thanks – for life,
for friends, for the cool sea air, for the merciful fading of his
nightmarish memories, for Gil-galad… Especially for Gil-galad.
Glorfindel, as he slowly adjusted to his new life, remained
ambivalent towards much of it, but not about the King. In a manner
that was both complex and wonderfully simple, he knew that in Gil-
galad he had found the love of his life. No matter what road the
future took, no matter the state of the King’s heart, for Glorfindel
this love would be forever, a part of his own personal thread of the
Music.





----------





The palace.



The emotional storm that had torn through Elrond’s defenses and sent
him into Erestor’s arms ran its course, though not before he had
stammered out a semi-coherent catalogue of the horror and loss that
had filled his life, most of it into Erestor’s white-clad shoulder.
Erestor said nothing throughout, simply held him and stroked his hair
and back, eventually guiding him to the bed so that they could sit
together instead of standing in the centre of the room.



When the wracking sobs had finally ceased and even the occasional
soft hiccough of a tear had subsided, Erestor rose and went to open
the prohibitively expensive bottle of miruvor he had bought in case
of a special occasion, and the two small cups out of which it was
customarily drunk. Going back to the bed, he took a moment to
consider his unexpected guest with concern. Elrond sat very straight
on the edge of the bed, with his head bowed and his hair hanging
loose and tumbling wildly around him. His hands were clutching the
coverlet, gripping so tightly the knuckles were white; he looked pale
and tense, with eyes so dark as to seem almost black.



Erestor offered the miruvor and said firmly, “Come on, drink some of
this. It’ll help steady you.”



Elrond took the cup and looked down at it uncertainly, before putting
it to his lips and sipping the potent liquid. “Half a bottle might do
that,” he said in something closer to his usual tones.



Erestor smiled briefly. “It’s a very small bottle,” he observed
dryly. “Still, even a cup will help. It can’t diffuse the pain, but
…”



Elrond sipped again, then looked up at Erestor through his hair. “I’m
sorry about…earlier,” he said slowly. “It was just – it was too much
this time. It feels as though everyone I love gets taken from me.
Today was just…very hard to deal with. I’m sorry for intruding on you
like this, I’m sorry for making you listen to all that…”



Erestor sat down and reached over, covering the hand not holding the
cup with his own. “You came to me, I listened. If there had been more
I could do, I would. No need for apology, ever. The danger with pain
is that if you keep it inside, it confines its poison to your heart.
Eventually either it eats you alive or you grow hard enough to ignore
it. Neither are good, though learning to be hard is worse, I think.
It grinds away at the place in your soul where love grows.”



Elrond slanted him a glance from dark eyes. “They make songs about my
family’s history for entertainment. Elros will just be one more
tragic hero to add to the list.” He made no attempt to hide the
resentment in his tone.



Erestor nodded, unable to argue with this simple fact. “I know it
hurts to see people you love being reduced to a fireside tale, but if
you only look at the pain you forget the joy. Death is not an ending
to love unless we make it so.”



Elrond’s face became still and closed and he drew his hand back. “For
us, perhaps. Not Elros,” he said flatly. “But, of course, he will
make a lovely song…”



Erestor placed a firm hand under the Half-elf’s chin, tilting it up
so that he could look into the dark grey eyes, and spoke firmly.
“Elrond, most of us now living have suffered loss of some type. I
know it feels as though you’re alone, but you’re not. I really do
understand…”



Elrond had the grace to lower his eyes and give a small nod. “I know
I’m not the only one,” he admitted. “I know the stories, I grew up
with them. Still, they tend to make much of my family… it’s almost as
bad as coming from Gondolin, I think,” he added with an attempt at
humour.



Erestor started to tidy the tangle of web-fine hair back from the
Half-elf’s face. “Or Nargothrond,” he agreed almost conversationally.
“I’ve had a few days when I’ve wished the songs could at least have
been written by someone who had actually seen a Dragon.”



Elrond turned his head into the tidying hand almost unconsciously and
frowned thoughtfully, a spark of interest lighting eyes that had
previously been flat and distant. “Have you ever seen one? A Dragon,
I mean.”



Erestor paused. Like Elrond, he lived life behind a mask, in his case
not as a defense against pain, but as a means to force the world to
take him seriously. Exotically beautiful, with his slanting, amber
eyes, shining black hair and creamy skin, it had taken several harsh
lessons before he learned that the best response to those who saw no
further than his obvious attractions was a cool, superior attitude
and an acid tongue.



Most people with whom he had dealings very quickly stopped noticing
his appearance, although this, he knew, was not yet the case with the
Princeling. Gentleness and vulnerability had no place in the façade
he presented to the world, nor had the memories of his past, yet
these, his instincts told him, were needed to convince Elrond that he
did not have to deal with this latest grief totally alone.



“Yes, I’ve seen one,” he said in an even voice. “I saw Glaurung
himself.”



Elrond curled onto the bed and, drawing his legs up beneath him to
sit cat-like, assumed a waiting air, the cup forgotten in his hand.
Erestor put his miruvor down on the floor and impulsively crawled
across the bed to sit behind Elrond, who looked back over his
shoulder, startled. He relaxed when Erestor drew his wayward hair
back before picking up a brush from the little nightstand and
starting to impose some form of order while he talked.



“It was against the rules, but we were walking together – we were all
very young,” he began, brushing firmly, his voice soft with memory.
“We’d been sent on an errand to Círdan’s people. I remember I was
talking about a visit to the baths and about my mother’s cooking… At
any rate, Brethil was the one who first realised something was badly
wrong, though it was Dínen – he was sister’s son to my father, he
died during the War – who said he smelt smoke, and…something more. We
kept low after that, and silent, but even so I think the only thing
that saved us was that they never thought to look so close to the
caves for more victims.”



He fell silent, remembering an odour of burning mingled with a foul,
metallic stench with an edge of corruption. The scent of Dragon.



“The bushes down by the river were on fire,” he continued, brushing
slowly. “The smoke hid us, so we could get close enough to watch,
even hear… The survivors were mainly women and children. They were
being…herded out onto the long terrace in front of the entrance. The
Orcs were kicking them, driving them along with whips…”



His voice trailed off. Elrond shifted back to lean against him, and
placed a steadying hand on his thigh, his own grief for the moment
put aside. Erestor set the brush down and slid an arm round him
before continuing. “There were only six of us, we could do nothing.
We watched them drive our people across the bridge...When it was
built, my great-uncle Gwindor said it would be our doom, and he was
right. Before then, we had been hidden, but the bridge showed Morgoth
the road to our door.”



He drew a ragged breath before going on. “The Mormegil was there too,
the Man you’d know as Túrin Turambar. He was standing on the edge of
the terrace near the bridge - they had to pass him before they
crossed it. We heard Orodreth’s daughter, Lady Finduilas, screaming
at him to wake up, to help them…She tried to go to him but the Orcs
laid hands on her and pushed her to join the others. He never moved.
He just stood there…bewitched by Glaurung.”



He paused, his eyes distant, and began to absently finger the soft
fabric of Elrond’s sleeve. “How do I describe Glaurung to you? You
probably need to understand where this happened. There was a terrace,
and then shallow stairs leading down to the bridge and he was lying
sprawled across the terrace with his head resting on the top step…”
He was quiet for a moment, his hand still. “For years after, I saw
that head in my dreams,” he said, his voice low. “Like a lizard, only
– immense. They had to pass him as they left, close enough to reach
out a hand, close enough to feel his breath on their skin…”



There were no words that would do justice to the memory, no way to
explain scales that were a tarnished greenish gold, a body
monstrously immense, so much so that the mind revolted at the sight.
Words could never begin to convey the reality of those heavily
muscled forelimbs, stocky, obscenely clawed, nor the grinning,
darkly-crested head, almost the height of a full-grown Elf. And the
eyes… He had caught a glimpse of the corner of one eye. Red it was, a
dark, unhealthy red, and even that quick glance showed him the power
and intelligence of the serpent, for this was no mere beast, but a
sentient being. And emanating from it, as tangible as the acrid smoke
that eddied and flowed around it, had been an aura of pure malice.
Words, he realised, could only diminish it.



Elrond sat up and turned to face Erestor, and asked in a voice that
was little more than a whisper. “Your family?”



He shrugged slightly, and the amber eyes closed briefly. “I saw my
mother and one sister pass the serpent’s head. My other sister….she
was very young. They killed the ones too small to work. Her name was
Galuiel. My father? I assume my father died fighting on Tumhalad. I
never found anyone who knew for sure.”



“How do you bear it?” The words came unbidden to Elrond’s lips,
asking the question that had coloured his own life for so many years.
He was kneeling with his hands resting lightly on his thighs, leaning
forward slightly, his expression intent. Erestor considered him
thoughtfully, then placed his hands firmly over Elrond’s, and
summoned an attempt at a smile.



“I was angry and in pain for a very long time,” he admitted. “We were
a close family. But my pain was overwhelming the good memories I had
of them – so I let it go.”



“Our kind go to Mandos,” Elrond said quietly. “And later some are
reborn in Aman. You will find them again some day. Not my brother.
His death will be absolute.”



Erestor shook his head and smiled properly this time. “Who knows how
death might change the reborn fëa? And I live here, not in the West.
No. All I have for comfort is what I offer you. As long as we keep
their memory fresh and etched in love, as long as there is a voice to
tell their tale, those we love will never leave us.”



He slid his arms around Elrond, and moved gracefully into his
answering embrace. As the Half-elf's cheek came to rest against his
hair, he added, “Believe this, Elrond, and your brother will never
die.”





----------





The road

Glorfindel explored the narrow streets, made a few brief sketches of
the harbour and outlined a view of the houses surrounding the square,
which he thought he might later expand into a painting, though he
suspected he was being overly ambitious. After this, he immersed
himself in the lines and curves that slowly shaped themselves into a
picture of the circle of stones with the sea behind it. So involved
did he become in this that it was only the fading of the light that
made him realise he was in danger of missing dinner.



No one stopped to speak with him in the village, either during the
time he spent there or at his departure, though he knew many pairs of
eyes had been following his progress with interest. The few Elves he
passed on his way back to the camp nodded and made the gesture of
respect, fingers to forehead, which was normally reserved for great
lords. They were partially right, he thought, with a small clench of
sadness round his heart, not for the rank which had once been his,
but for all he had lost with the passing of its relevance.



On his return, he found dinner being served and most of the company
already eating. He joined the small group still gathered at the
makeshift table – a board resting on two strips of wood – from which
the remaining fish, pork and venison was being portioned out, and was
waiting his turn when a member of the escort came up behind him,
holding out a well-laden plate.



“His Majesty noticed your absence, my lord, and asked me to see to
this for you. He said you would prefer the fish?”



Glorfindel turned, feeling the warmth in his face and hoping the
blush wasn’t obvious in the gathering dusk. No matter how he tried,
this was something over which he seemed to have no control. “Fish was
a rarity in Gondolin,” he explained with a quick smile. Taking in the
plate’s contents, he added, “And thank you, this was well-chosen.”



The warrior nodded confirmation. “Fish, well cooked, and a mixed
salad, his Majesty said. And bread, not bratan. He was very clear
about that.”



Bratan were strongly spiced wheat cakes, highly popular in Lindon,
but foreign and unpalatable to the newcomer.



Most of the travellers had taken their food and gone to sit around
the fire which had been built up within stones in the centre of the
clearing, but Glorfindel found a quiet spot on the grass under a
tree, made himself comfortable and began to eat. He had always kept a
little apart, shyness being a barrier to the easy mingling that
happened apparently effortlessly around him, and he had learned to
take pleasure in being a spectator instead of a participant at social
events.



He was suddenly taken by a feeling of unreality as he watched the
scene before him. Men and Elves mingled in small groups, while the
smoke rising from the fires danced in the glow of the lanterns which
shone amongst the trees, strung there partly for the convenience of
the Men, who lacked Elven sight after dark, partly for love of the
atmosphere they created. Voices were talking, laughing, raised in
song, all blending in harmony with the unseen, murmuring presence of
the sea…



Gondolin had been a land of firmly imposed order, with accepted rules
for public conduct. This relaxed sharing of food, interlaced with
easy companionship and snatches of melody would have been deeply
frowned upon. For the King himself to be part of it, to be wandering
around, plate in hand, stopping to talk to first one group then
another as he had been when Glorfindel had returned, would have been
unthinkable. He sat, bread in hand, feeling dislocated as he had not
for some weeks, trying to reconcile the sense of unreality, of being
in two places at once, of being two people - for the Glorfindel of
Lindon was developing into a very different person to the insecure,
withdrawn Glorfindel of Gondolin.



“Ah, there you are, Glorfindel. May I join you?” Dalbros, holding two
cups of wine, stood looking down at him. Brought solidly back to the
present, solitude no longer an option, Glorfindel smiled a greeting
and was soon caught up in conversation. Reality returned and the
sense of dislocation gradually retreated.





----------





After he had eaten, Glorfindel scraped his plate, left it on the
stack to be washed and, after helping himself to an apple from the
fruit offered in lieu of dessert, decided on a short walk before
steeling himself to join the crowd sitting around the fire. This time
he went up to the road, thinking to go as far as the watch station
which had been set up a short distance from the camp. He had not gone
far before he saw Gil-galad, who was standing looking out over the
sea at the strange new light shining brilliantly in the West.
Glorfindel was surprised to see that Laslech was with him, leashed
and sitting obediently beside him, waiting, as Elrond had taught her,
till they could move on.



He approached them unhurriedly, ignoring the sense of eyes on his
back and telling himself firmly not to be fanciful, no one was
watching, and, even if they were, this was nothing more than an
innocent conversation. Gil-galad, alerted by Laslech’s excited bark
and wagging tail, turned and smiled an invitation, his eyes lighting
with welcome.



“I should have thought of this,” Glorfindel said, smiling a greeting
and gesturing to the dog. “She hated being in that cage. I should
have taken her with me when I went to look at the village, too.”



Earlier in the day, hearing the dog barking for attention, he had
dropped back a few times to ride beside the wagon on which she was
being transported, along with an assortment of crates and baskets,
but his presence had only caused her to whine and scratch to be
released. Concerned by her obvious fear and confusion, he had finally
decided it would be best to let her alone in the hope that she would
accept the situation and settle down.



“They let her out on the road a few times, but otherwise…. I was
going to ask someone to take her for a walk, but it seemed easier to
do it myself,” Gil-galad explained, reaching down to gently tug one
of the young dog’s ears. “I wanted to have a look at the view
anyway…it’s almost as bright as day.”



They stood together, watching the unearthly glow of Vingilot sailing
low across the sea in the West. Glorfindel, who remembered the coming
of the moon and the wonder it had engendered, had been surprised the
unnatural light was accepted in so matter of fact a manner, but the
Eldar had seen many strange things since that first moonrise, not all
of them good, and they were less easily over-awed.



“I expected Elrond to change his mind in the end and ride with us,”
he remarked, kneeling down beside the dog. She licked him with less
than her usual exuberance, confused by the cage and the journey and
not understanding the reason for what, in her world, could only be a
punishment for some unfathomable error.



Gil-galad shook his head, his eyes following the flight of a gull, as
clearly outlined against the sky as it would have been by moonlight.
“It would be harder to keep up a front at the last, and there’d be
too many eyes watching. I’m guessing they said what needed saying
days ago. It’s the way they are.”



Glorfindel nodded slowly. “I should have tried to talk him into
coming along anyway, or else stayed behind myself,” he said, putting
an arm round Laslech and petting her. “I was wrong to leave him alone
like this.”



“We’ll only be gone a few days,” Gil-galad replied, shrugging with
the smallest touch of impatience. Glorfindel’s regular concern for
Elrond tended to unsettle him for reasons he preferred not to
analyse. “He’ll be more likely to need support once the reality’s had
a chance to set in. Whatever he’s dealing with now could hardly be
worse than the strain of putting on a face with everyone watching to
see how he coped.”



Glorfindel shot him a glance. The remark had the edge of bitter
experience to it. He was reminded of Elrond’s comments about Gil-
galad having to cope with the news of the destruction of Nargothrond
and the deaths of his father and sister whilst he was in Círdan’s
care, and living amongst strangers. Deciding to keep the conversation
light, he sought a less sombre topic. “You seemed to be enjoying
yourself earlier?” he said, making it a question. “You spent a lot of
time talking with the Men. You enjoy their company, don’t you? The
Second-born generally, I mean, not just this group.”



Gil’s mouth pulled in a wry smile. “They have a lot to recommend
them, I find,” he admitted. He glanced around, confirmed they were
alone and came and sat down next to Glorfindel, stretching his legs
out before him and leaning back on his hands, close enough for their
shoulders to touch. He gave Glorfindel a sidelong, considering
glance, before saying slowly, “I have spent almost my whole life
being compared to my predecessors – to Fingolfin and Fingon, to
Turgon, to my uncle Finrod… To the Second-born, these names are
unimportant. There has only been one High King of the Elves for
several generations of their kind. Amongst them I need not feel I am
continually being measured…”



He stopped a moment and compressed his lips, then he glanced at
Glorfindel with a rueful smile before leaning against him and pushing
him lightly. The smile failed to reach his eyes; they were watchful,
waiting for judgement or disapproval. “I think Elrond had to hear
some of this the night I got drunk,” he admitted. “I’m completely
sober tonight - hopefully I’m less self-pitying, too. It’s just –
very hard to walk in their shadows sometimes.”



Glorfindel let go of Laslech, who had found peace in familiar company
and was lying waiting for Elrond to come and fetch her home. He
turned to face Gil, and placed a hand over one of his, knowing they
were visible to anyone else who might care to walk along the road
from the camp, knowing too that touch was essential to someone as
tactile as the King. He understood how difficult it had been to share
this confidence. Gil-galad’s eyes met his, and offered his
vulnerability as a gift.



“Turgon accepted isolation for us,” Glorfindel said, choosing his
words carefully. “I think it was the wrong choice – it left us
trapped and unprepared when the attack came. Fingon was ill-advised,
too inclined to listen to Maedhros who, in his turn, was driven by
his father’s Oath, not the good of the Eldar. And Fingolfin…” He
looked again at the light on the water, remembering another light, a
powerful, larger-than-life personality. Something of this showed in
his face, and he looked suddenly his age, one of the dwindling number
of the Aman-born still to be found in Middle-earth.



“Fingolfin was a great king, a wonderful leader. At the end, his
choice was more impulsive than wise, but he did what he felt was
right.” He paused, turning back to Gil. “You remind me of him a
little, perhaps. You have the same strength, the same love for your
people. But you also need to remember, those times were different. I
have seen them all, Gil. I even – barely – remember Finwë, and I
believe that for this Age and this place, you are the best King we
could have. I think, in time, you could show yourself greater than
all of them.”



Gil-galad turned his hand and intertwined their fingers, squeezing
briefly. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes, which appeared
almost silver in the strange light, told Glorfindel it had been
enough. They sat together, hands linked, with Laslech dozing beside
them, and watched the light of the last of the Silmarils marking a
pathway across the sea.





Brethil - birch

Dínen - silent one

Galuiel - good fortune

Mormegil – Dark Sword – one of the names Túrin Turambar was known by.



* * * * *





Title: Even Quicker Than Doubt 20/25	

Author: Keiliss	

Pairings: Gil-Galad/Glorfindel, Elrond/Erestor

Rating: R 

Summary: Gil-galad inspects Forlond, Erestor has an idea.

Beta: Enismirdal





Chapter 20





Forlond



The major harbour and commercial centre of Forlindon, was a busy town
boasting a highly cosmopolitan population of Elves, Men, and even a
small colony of Dwarves. Built at the foot of rolling hills, bordered
by farmlands and forest, it was also home to the King’s Fleet, the
swift, dark-sailed vessels that patrolled the coastline, protecting
shipping from possible piracy and ready to deploy at speed a small
force of seasoned warriors as aid against the many enemies wandering
leaderless since the end of the Great War.



The port in no way resembled Círdan’s solemnly reverenced, closely
guarded Haven at Mithlond, the departure point for those seeking the
peace and eternal security of the Undying Lands. Instead, Forlond was
a bustle of warehouses and fisheries and all the normal occupations
of any costal town. The section of the waterfront not given over to
the Fleet offered markets and merchants’ storefronts, usually with
the family home around the back, as well as a small selection of
taverns and inns, some more respectable than others.





----------





After a pleasant ride that took them through outlying farmlands and
densely forested areas, the King’s party arrived at the home of
Edhelûr, the aged Telerin referred to as the Master of Forlond, who
controlled the harbour and answered to the King for the governance of
the town. His residence, set high on the hill, proved to be a large,
rambling estate with storerooms and orchards and an extensive
vegetable garden.



The house was crowded but Glorfindel, given a room at the back
overlooking a wood where the trees still held their bright autumn
colours, felt immediately and inexplicably at home. He would have
been happy to pass what remained of the morning exploring the
grounds, but Gil-galad, who arrived as he was busy putting away the
few items of clothing he had brought with him, had other ideas.



Leaving the door open for propriety’s sake, the King strode to the
middle of the room and looked around, frowning.



“Manwë's balls, is this the best they could do for you? I’ve seen
larger closets.”



The golden warrior, who had long since ceased being troubled by the
occasional obscenity, gestured to the window. “It’s cosy, and the
view’s wonderful. Anyway, we’ll only be here for two nights, won’t
we?”



Gil-galad nodded briefly, still scrutinizing his surroundings. “Yes,
and I’m going to feel as though the walls are closing in on me. And
that bed looks as though it was made for a Dwarf…”



“You’re surely not thinking of spending the night here?” the blonde
asked in disbelief. “The whole house will know by morning, the whole
of Lindon an hour after we return home.”



“Aren’t you starting to get a little tired of this overworked
caution?” the King asked him with a touch of irritation. ”If they
want to gossip, let them. Just ignore it, they’ll soon get bored.”



Glorfindel, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked up at him
seriously. “It isn’t only gossip I’m worried about, Gil. I was a
courtier in Gondolin. There’s more involved here than me being over-
sensitive as you keep calling it.”



Gil-galad blew out a breath and came to sit beside him. “How I spend
my private time, and with whom, is no one’s business but mine…” he
began, but stilled when Glorfindel placed a firm hand on his wrist.



“It should be, but it isn’t,” he said calmly. “Círdan plainly
disapproves that things are - as they are between us. I think that
reaction would be general.” How things really stood between them was
not something Gil had so far displayed any need to clarify, but he
resisted the urge to mention this.



The King turned to study his face carefully. “What are you saying,
exactly?” he asked. “That I should behave like some tragic hero in a
song? Are you suggesting I deny my true nature and bind to satisfy
Círdan’s urge to see me produce heirs?”



“He might have a point,” the Elf from Gondolin said quietly. ”People
accept a liaison between two males if it’s discreet, but in your case
they assume a queen and children. It’s the main focus of court
politics right now. If you’re interested, the current favourite seems
to be Aravilui’s daughter, Heriadlas.”



Gil-galad’s lips tightened briefly, then he placed an arm heavily
around Glorfindel’s shoulders and sighed.



“Yes, I know. Look, I won’t deny the need for tact, but binding and
creating a family are not for me. This is something people will just
have to learn to accept, as I have. As for the succession - I have no
intention of dying, but if the need arose I already have a perfectly
adequate heir in Elrond. At any rate, I didn’t come here to talk
about this,” he added briskly, rising to his feet and pulling his
companion up with him. “I have things to see to in town. I thought
you might like to come and have a look at the real heart of Lindon.”





----------





The small group that eventually set out included Master Edhelûr, the
King’s senior assistant who was a quiet Sinda named Thenin, and
Dalbros who, eager for whatever information he could glean, was
elated to be invited. They spent the next few hours visiting
communities of net and sail makers, carpenters, weavers and a wide
variety of merchants. Gil-galad, who had the good commander’s gift
for remembering faces, names and family details, wandered in and out
of homes and workshops, talking to everyone. Glorfindel watched,
amused, as the King managed to turn an inspection into a much
relished visit amongst old friends



When eventually they reached the harbour, Edhelûr led them past two
guard posts and down a small incline, coming out just above the pier
where the Fleet docked and the ships being made ready by Círdan’s
shipwrights for the Secondborn were moored. Having no idea of the
numbers involved in the migration, Glorfindel was unprepared for the
sight of so many vessels, almost fifty he estimated, built of pale
wood and with shimmering green and yellow sails, all riding at
anchor, ready to depart.



They had barely dismounted when Círdan came clambering down from a
half-completed ship still in the dry dock and, ignoring Gil-galad for
the moment, hailed Edhelûr, embracing him in greeting like a brother.
He was casually dressed, his hair was tied back like that of an
ordinary seaman, and Glorfindel had a sense of finally seeing the
aged Elf in his natural element.



A highly animated conversation ensued as Círdan and Edhelûr attempted
to explain a new innovation to Gil-galad regarding sail design, and
the difficulties of persuading the sail-makers to comply. Glorfindel,
who knew little about ships and nothing about sails, was standing off
to one side and looking out over the bay when a softly accented voice
spoke unsettlingly close to his ear.



“Well met, Twice-born. Do I find you content in this time and place?”



Glorfindel turned slowly, controlling the sense of ice water
trickling down his spine, to face the silver-haired, amethyst-eyed
Herald of the Valar. Eönwë had joined them so silently that no one
had been aware of his arrival. The blonde had never before met one of
the Maiar, though he had seen several in his youth in Tirion, and had
been taught the correct procedure should he encounter one. He touched
his fingers in a circle to his forehead to symbolize unity with the
One, then rested his hand over his heart.



“I am well, Lord,” he said levelly, feeling rather than hearing Gil-
galad move up behind him, close enough for warm breath to stir his
hair. It was like having a wall at his back, and he took a moment to
be relieved at not having to cope with the Maia alone. Glorfindel had
been taught to regard the beings who were so often the link between
Elves and Valar with awed affection, but there was no trace of warmth
in Eönwë, nothing to inspire even mild liking.



The Maia inclined his head graciously. “Lord Námo was most generous
on your account. I would advise you to make good use of the life he
has granted you.”



Glorfindel’s head jerked up sharply at the condescending tone and,
with the occasional recklessness that came to him in battle, he
retorted, “I honour Lord Námo for granting me a second chance, Lord,
but it would make more sense if he had thought to tell me why I was
here.”



Behind him, on the edge of hearing, came a soft, gasping laugh from
Gil-galad. Long moments passed during which seagulls cried, timbers
creaked and half-furled sails flapped sharply, and all the while
those cool violet eyes surveyed him thoughtfully, contemplating the
enormity of his lack of respect.



“Your determination and veritas were apparently noted,” he was
finally informed in the same toneless, emotionless voice. “Some day
your experience in confronting the forces of darkness will be called
upon again. When the time comes, all will be made clear to you. I can
tell you no more.”



Dismissing Glorfindel with a disdainful motion of his shoulder, Eönwë
addressed himself to Círdan. “The time grows short,” he said in
somewhat more clipped tones. “How much longer do we have to wait
before your mariners arrive? All else is in readiness. Further delays
are unacceptable.”





----------





Elrond woke disoriented by the unfamiliarity of a warm body nearby
and the sound of soft breathing close to his ear. Opening his eyes
carefully, he looked around whilst remaining absolutely still. In the
dim morning light Erestor’s room was shadowy, the vibrant colours
muted though still welcoming. Memory returned, bringing with it the
grey emptiness of the previous day. The knot of misery started
reforming in his stomach, but then he remembered how the night had
ended, and his attention was drawn instead to the figure in the bed
beside him.



They had sat holding one another for a time after Erestor had
finished telling his story, before stretching out on the bed
together, talking of generalities. They had shared a few uncertain,
almost chaste kisses, but the day had been long and emotional, and
the call of sleep irresistible. Elrond had no idea at what point his
eyes had finally lost focus, but he had fallen asleep to the sound of
a voice that was smooth as brandy, honey-sweet.



Erestor, who must have drawn the bedcover up and over them at some
point before himself falling asleep, was lying on his side, his hair
an ink-dark shadow falling across his face and shoulder to pool onto
the bed. Elrond watched his own hand move up almost of its own
volition to lift the straight black hair away from the sleeping face,
and suddenly became aware that he was being watched. With no apparent
transition, Erestor had shifted from sleep to awareness and was
studying him, his expression gravely thoughtful.



“Good morning,” Elrond said softly, gently tugging a lock of silken
hair before allowing it to slide through his fingers.



Erestor’s mouth twitched into a smile, and he leaned up on an elbow,
touching the Half-elf’s cheek with light fingers. “Good morning to
you,” he said softly. “I should have woken you, but I hadn’t the
heart. You slept well?”



Elrond looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you, I felt
like a wall of water struck me. Thank you for letting me stay.”



He received an inscrutable look. “You needed to rest, you were worn
out. I somehow don’t think you slept the night before, either… And
waking up alone is seldom the best way to begin a difficult day.”



“After yesterday it can only get better,” Elrond said wryly.



Erestor raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s been my experience that nothing
is ever so bad it can’t get worse,” he said cheerfully. “But at least
you don’t have to deal with it on your own now. Whenever you need to
talk, I promise to listen.”



He stretched and shook back hair that moved like a fall of silk as he
spoke, and their eyes met and held. There was no premeditation, the
kiss was something that almost seemed to happen of itself, a movement
of heads, a seeking of lips, tentative and exploratory. Then Elrond
reached out his arms, drawing Erestor up against him while he
deepened the kiss, driven by instincts that moved swiftly from
curiosity to desire-laden intent. When they finally paused for breath
Erestor watched him for several heartbeats, amber eyes shimmering
beneath black lashes. Then, with a small, soft sigh, he relaxed
against Elrond, lips parted, and let his head fall back in an
unmistakable gesture of surrender.



What followed would afterwards remain tangled in Elrond’s memory, a
collage of soft skin, silken hair, husky whispers. Hands investigated
the lines of bodies, went further, sought naked flesh, stroked and
pressed and clasped. Erestor easily persuaded the Half-elf out of his
tunic, unfastening his shirt with dextrous fingers while leaning over
in a swathe of hair to place soft kisses upon each newly revealed
area of flesh. At the same time his free hand pushed the sleeve of
Elrond’s shirt back from his shoulder, his fingers rubbing small,
urgent circles against the bared skin.



Elrond, though lacking experience, followed instinct, rolling onto
his side and gathering the dark Elf into his arms, kissing him open-
mouthed and thoroughly, and feeling heat flood through him at the
hungry response of delving tongue and grasping hands. Finally
releasing Erestor’s mouth, he tugged at shirt fastenings, breaking at
least one, while he offered hot kisses to creamy skin, questing
touches of unpracticed fingers. Eventually, with a frustrated hiss,
Erestor pulled away from him to kneel up and remove his shirt,
dropping it carelessly onto the floor before subsiding bonelessly
back onto the bed, his eyes half closed, giving his face a languid,
inviting expression.



Unclad, Erestor was quite simply…gorgeous. He was built like a
runner, all sleek, unobtrusive muscle under velvet skin, brownish
nipples contrasting strongly against his fairness. Elrond, staring,
remained unmoving, lost in admiration until strong, slender fingers
tangled in his hair, and a whispered, “Yes, of course you can,”
answered a question he had not been aware of asking.



He trailed his fingers over yielding flesh, then bent to suck one
erect nipple into his mouth, watching as Erestor’s brilliant eyes
slowly closed. He worked his tongue over soft skin and peaked
hardness, quickly discovering that a sharp flick could draw a
response from Erestor akin to the mewling of a kitten, or the soft
cry of a bird. It was a sound that somehow seemed to bypass his ears
to reach directly to his groin.



Releasing the nipple, he brushed his thumb back and forth across it,
watching it harden further in response, feeling the tense heat within
him increase at the sensation of swollen wetness under his touch.
Turning his attention to its twin, he dipped his head to suckle and
nip while his fingers continued to roll and tweak, causing the dark-
eyed Elf to give a low, purring moan that made Elrond shiver with
desire.



Moving slowly, he kissed a path up Erestor’s long neck, sucking the
fair skin hard enough to mark it, before claiming his mouth once
more. He kissed Erestor’s cheeks and eyelids, rubbed his lips against
the tip of one elegant ear, and was licking the hollow at the base of
his throat when Erestor, whose body was beginning to writhe in an
instantly recognizable rhythm, reluctantly slowed his movements.
Resting a long-fingered hand against Elrond’s cheek, he sighed and
then gently pushed. The Half-elf, his eyes dark and not completely
focused, looked up questioningly.



“Work,” Erestor explained simply. “If I don’t get up now, I’ll be
late… I have to be present for a briefing.”



Elrond stared at him blankly then groaned, dropping his head heavily
onto Erestor’s chest. Strong arms went round him and held him for a
moment, and a hand stroked his disheveled hair while they both strove
to steady their breathing. “Believe me, this is not by choice…”
Erestor assured him, before sliding out from under him and trying to
sit up. Elrond was faster and reached out for him, catching him by
the elbows, but Erestor pulled away with a laughing, if still
slightly dazed, shake of his head.



“No, my lord, some of us have to work. I need to dress.” He looked
around vaguely as he spoke, as though expecting his room to have
changed overnight. While he was distracted, Elrond made a final
playful attempt to stop him, catching at his long, black hair as he
tried to rise and pulling him back to fall onto the bed. Leaning over
Erestor, he held him down by the upper arms, enjoying the way
laughter lit his face and knowing that, had he wished to break free,
he could have done so with ease.



The fact that Elrond displayed none of the devastated grief that had
threatened to consume him the previous night was no surprise to
Erestor. A lifetime’s habit of concealed emotions was unlikely to be
discarded in one day. He knew the pain was still there, and would
have to be faced again when Elrond was alone and undistracted. After
a moment’s reflection he decided that he could, after all, afford to
be a little late for once.



“What difference will a few minutes make?” the Half-elf was
demanding. “Come on, first you have to promise never to call me ‘my
lord’ again…”



“You really don’t like that very much, do you?” Erestor wriggled as
he spoke, but not as much as he might have. Elrond was looking down
at him darkly, and shaking his head.



“You know I don’t like the title,” he said. “No one called me that
till I came here – at first it took me a moment to realise I was the
‘lord’ being spoken to…”



Erestor’s eyes flashed amusement. “Believe me, I’m not in the habit
of thinking of you as ‘my lord’,” he said dryly. “If I were, the
present situation would be totally inappropriate.”





----------





They left the pier shortly after Eönwë’s arrival. Gil-galad’s obvious
dislike for the Maia surprised Glorfindel, who had become accustomed
to the King’s habit of masking his opinions of others with an
appearance of distant courtesy. In this case he was polite, but there
was an edge to his words and he told Círdan he would keep any further
questions until they spoke later. His foster father nodded without
comment. Glorfindel had an idea this had happened before.



A visit to the commercial section of the waterfront included the fish
market, several warehouses and also a small foundry owned and worked
entirely by a family of Dwarves who had known a good business
opportunity when they saw one, even if it meant living in an Elven
city far from their clan in the Blue Mountains. The King was greeted
as an honoured guest, and given a brief tour. After this, he spent
upwards of an hour being educated in the benefits and difficulties
experienced by Dwarves trading within his kingdom by the owner, a
thickset Dwarf with a greying beard, whose name, Glorfindel gathered,
was Nýrád.



Discussion concluded, the next stop on Gil-galad’s list turned out to
be a tavern, which was another new experience for Glorfindel, there
having been nothing resembling inns or public taverns in Gondolin. In
fact, there had been no taverns in Nevrast either, he reflected,
sitting alone on a bench in a dimly-lit room, a mug containing a
honey-brown beverage, enthusiastically recommended by Gil-galad, on
the table before him



Gil was on the other side of the room, engrossed in a noisy
discussion, punctuated by bursts of raucous merriment, with a group
of seamen. Dalbros had gone off with Master Edhelûr, who was proving
an excellent source of information about the founding of the town,
and Thenin had joined the two warriors who were serving as an
unobtrusive escort to the High King. Gil-galad refused to have an
official guard, saying it was an insult to his people that he should
appear to protect himself from them.



The King finally tore himself away to the accompaniment of much
laughter and joking and made his way back to Glorfindel. Settling
down on the bench opposite, he drank deeply and leaned back against
the wall with a contented sigh, which was seen rather than heard over
the sounds of talking, the clatter of plates, and the dissonance of a
musical instrument being tuned.



“Now this is nice, isn’t it?” he said in satisfied tones. “Círdan
doesn’t approve, of course, but it’s a good place to get to know what
people are thinking. I never liked being too precious and set apart,
anyway.”



The golden warrior kept his thoughts to himself and nodded. Gil, he
had noticed, was quite good at justifying little personal indulgences
like this, but he worked hard and was entitled. “You’ve been enjoying
yourself today, haven’t you?” he asked instead, amused. “I think all
those inspections were just an excuse to meet old friends and share
some gossip.”



“I don’t gossip,” Gil-galad informed him flatly, shaking his head.
“Much.” He flashed an easy grin. “I like Forlond,” he admitted. “I
like the way it’s laid out, the atmosphere… Círdan’s folk followed
him to Mithlond at the end of the War, but a lot of the people who
fled to Balar during the fighting moved here. It almost feels like
coming home for a visit,” he finished, with a slightly embarrassed
look.



Glorfindel nodded. He treasured these occasional glimpses into
private spaces, storing them up to mull over later, adding another
piece to the picture he was building. “It’s less formal here,” he
ventured. “Is that what appeals to you?”



Gil-galad’s eyes took on a slightly grim look. “I could live my life
just fine without all the formality,” he agreed. “Trouble is, people
like to see the trappings of power. I suppose it’s reassuring to know
someone’s accountable. Otherwise I wouldn’t bother with it.”



The warrior looked around again. This was probably as informal as a
setting got, he decided, sipping his drink. The beverage was unusual,
with an almost yeasty smell, and tingled in his mouth not
unpleasantly. He gestured with the mug and asked, “What am I
drinking, anyway? A specialty from Balar? I’ve never tasted anything
like it before.”



“What, this?” Gil-galad’s expressive face lit up. “They call it beer.
It’s brewed by the Dwarves from some kind of grain. Nýrád’s brother
began importing it and it’s grown so popular we’re considering a
trade agreement with his clan. First time I ever tasted it was here.”



The tavern was starting to fill up now, as the working day drew to a
close. Thenin and the escort had been forced to change tables to
remain beside them. Glorfindel noticed that no one attempted to
approach the King, though from the looks turned their way it was
clear everyone knew who the visitors were, even though Gil-galad was
dressed casually and the two warriors were wearing only the light,
leather armour that was common to most fighters. It occurred to him
that this was a known pleasure of the King’s, to sit and drink the
Dwarf beverage in a tavern and watch normal people going about normal
business, and that Forlond was happy to see him doing so.



Gil-galad drank deeply, inclined his head in greeting to someone,
then turned back, his eyes serious. “I was proud of you back there.
Not often I’ve seen someone refuse to be overawed by Eönwë. Much use
it was in the end though. Think he really knows what they want? I
wouldn’t put it past him. That bastard has ice water flowing where
others have blood.”



Glorfindel blinked at the dislike in the King’s tone, then shook his
head. “I don’t think so, no. If he did, I think he would have wanted
me to know he hadn’t told me, if that makes sense.”



“Ah,” Gil-galad said, nodding. “Yes, that would be about right for
him.”



He sat quietly for a few minutes, gazing into his beer and apparently
lost in thought, then said casually, “I was watching one of the
patrol ships from the Fleet earlier, and it started me thinking…”



He had been watching a couple, probably courting, who were in their
turn watching him, but something in the very casualness caught and
focused Glorfindel’s attention. “Oh?”



Gil-galad nodded and said slowly. “The only place I need an attack
force right now is on the water, you know. That got me thinking about
the army.” He sat back against the wall again, the late sunlight
slanting through a nearby window catching his hair and lifting the
red lights to view, and he smiled his most disarmingly charming smile
before becoming serious again. “We spent all my life taking war to
the Enemy, but what we need now is a defensive force. We need
warriors who can secure our borders and clear out the Orcs and
renegade Men who still threaten the smaller settlements… We need a
force trained to protect.”



He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them. “I
know you turned this down before, I know you said you had no wish to
fight or send others out to do so. But defense was the whole object
of Gondolin, you would understand it far better than any of my senior
commanders. You are exactly who I want - someone who can look at the
army in its present form and design the changes that would fit it for
today’s needs.”



He had been gesturing animatedly with his large, expressive hands
while he spoke, and his light blue eyes had been intent, but now his
face softened. He gave Glorfindel a look containing more intimacy
than could be expressed in public, followed by a smile that was
almost a touch.



“It might not be your intended destiny, but it’s work that has to be
done. You could pick your own assistants, have a completely free
hand. At the end you would present your report to my full council,
not privately to me – no grounds this time to accuse me of trying to
find something to keep you amused. You don’t have to answer me now,”
he added, swallowing down the last of his beer. “Just think about it,
that’s all I ask.“





----------





Erestor’s day had been too busy to allow for any breaks, to the
extent that an apple eaten at his desk had passed for lunch, and it
was mid afternoon before he next saw Elrond. He was on his way to
speak to the captain of the palace guard when he caught sight of the
by now familiar figure, sitting on a bench under a willow tree, his
hands resting loosely in his lap as he stared out over the lake. The
liveliness of the morning had vanished, replaced by an almost
physical sense of stillness. Hurried though he was, Erestor paused
for a moment and watched him, considering.



The morning had offered distractions – waking in a strange bed,
kisses, caresses, laughter. Since then there would have been time to
feel the emptiness of the palace, to note the absence of the dog…
Laslech’s loss would be a constant reminder of all that had been
taken, and he spared an angry thought for Elros, who could surely
have left her behind as consolation of sorts. Like most Elves,
Erestor had never had a pet, but had noticed the companionship and
comfort Men seemed to gain from them and had certainly enjoyed his
interchanges with Laslech.



He resumed walking, with the idea of finishing the current errand and
then going back to spend a few minutes with Elrond, and was almost at
the barracks’ administrative office when a movement to his right
caught his attention. He stood quite still for a moment as an idea
presented itself to him, fully detailed and simplicity itself in
execution if he was determined enough.



The captain found himself on the receiving end of a brief list of
instructions regarding the new, more efficient roster which had been
determined by a committee of five bureaucrats and which would almost
certainly never work. He was given no chance to argue, but was simply
told to present any objections or suggestions in writing, after which
the junior advisor left in a swirl of black hair at a pace just short
of a run.



Erestor felt sorry for him – he had thought the roster nonsensical
himself and had gone prepared to discuss it and make suggestions, but
as things now stood that would have to wait for a couple of days. He
had arrangements to make.





Edhelûr - elf counsel

Heriadlas - source of joy

Aravilui - noble and kind

Thenin - honest/true





* * * * *