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keilissTitle: Life After
Part: 1/6
Characters: Gildor, Glorfindel, Erestor
Rating: R
Beta: Red Lasbelin
Timeline: some time after T.A. 1000.
Summary: life after rebirth - Glorfindel’s first year in Imladris.
LIFE AFTER
"Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen, and his voice like music; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength."
Part One
AWARENESS
The rising sun was painting a line of pale light across the ceiling. Glorfindel watched through half open eyes and listened to the wind. He had been a guest in Elrond’s valley for almost a month now and was trying to learn the weather. There was only a soft breeze this morning, freshening from the south, the warm wind that came before the soft, short-lived rain. The growing rain was how he thought of it. He smiled at the imagery of flowers and crops raising their faces to the raindrops, a fancy of a kind that would have been foreign to his former, more prosaic self.
Gildor lay just touching him, and the first new-familiar slide of other flesh against his own upon waking was still a little unsettling. He had shared a bed with Gildor before, of course, many times after they arrived on this strange, bright shore where Morgoth had fled with Fëanor close behind, but that had been an eon ago, back when his body was still the one his mother had given birth to.
It was as well Gildor was not the cuddly type, at least there had been no waking up entangled in other limbs. Touch was still an uncertain thing for him, though in the past five days he had begun relearning its pleasures.
"Hey. Dreamer. You awake?" Gildor elbowed him good-humouredly in the ribs, yawning. The movement disturbed a sleeping cat, who clambered disgustedly over Glorfindel and left the bed. "Time for some early morning exercise – though not so early, I see the sun’s already up. And speaking for myself, she’s not the only one… "
His hand travelled Glorfindel's thigh and up to his groin as he spoke. What he found there, or failed to find, made him grunt. "Anyone home?" His hand quested, encircled, and Glorfindel found himself responding as nature had intended, hardening, his stomach muscles contracting in response to the first twists of pleasure. He sighed, turned slightly towards Gildor, unconsciously inviting.
"I'm sorry, everything’s still a little slow. My body’s adjusting, I suppose. Some things feel more familiar than others. Like this --- haven’t quite forgotten this...."
Gildor leaned up and over him, tousled red hair falling careless over both their chests. Glorfindel had been amused to find he still hennaed it - the colour was an old joke dating back to Aman, clearly one that had become a part of the legend of Finwe's renegade grandson. "I should hope not," the prince said, smoky blue eyes amused. "Come on, practice makes perfect. And after breakfast – perhaps it’s time you got reacquainted with those other sword skills you were such a master of before."
~*~*~*~
The barracks housed offices, the armoury, and living space for unwed warriors, and was a long, two floored building set against the cliff. To reach it they had to follow the path through the wood and then traverse the stone flagged river walkway. The last stage, once past the sprawling structure they all referred to simply as the House, was up steps cut ladder-like directly into the face of the cliff. They passed a number of elves on their walk, all of whom seemed busy, none of whom stared for too long. Gildor greeted a couple and ignored the rest while Glorfindel smiled and nodded in response to the quick greetings, ever intrigued by the new, more clipped form of Sindarin.
He looked around as he walked, noticing everything that grew along the way, seeing what bloomed, what faded. He liked the river path for the same reasons he liked the House; it felt timeless, showed signs of repair in places, and had clearly been laid down a very long while ago. Everything in Vinyamar had been temporary, nothing in Gondolin was more than five hundred sun years, whereas Imladris felt old and settled, more like the land he had recently left behind.
Once up the steps they could see an open air practice area beside the barracks, where a handful of warriors were busy with a form of stick fighting Glorfindel had not encountered before. He paused, fascinated, trying to memorise a couple of lines and stances. It would make an interesting sketch if he could just remember the details later…
"Through here," Gildor’s voice intruded, a hand briefly on his arm. "Need to find you a decent sword. They have training rooms inside, too. Suits me more than out there with a ready-made audience, though being watched never seemed to bother you much."
'Inside' took them through a simple foyer and down a passageway to a series of interconnected rooms lit by narrow windows set up close to the ceiling. From the combined scents of leather, metal, sweat, and oil, Glorfindel easily identified this as the armoury. Gildor led him briskly past ranked bows and quivers of arrows, past spears and staves and an entire room devoted to shields, to a short hallway where rows of swords were on display.
"That side, personally owned swords," he said, indicating the majority. "These over here by the door are practice swords and general stock. Borrow one till we have time to get one made for you. Need an appointment with the armourer too..."
Quietly Glorfindel interrupted him. "I don't think I need armour, Gildor. I don't really see myself bearing arms again any time soon, except for dire emergencies. I was sent back as an advisor, not a warrior."
Gildor made an impatient sound. "You say now, while everything still feels strange. You'll soon be more like yourself and the best way to get there is by spending time on the things you excelled at. Of course you’re feeling out of touch. Shutting yourself up in that cottage and playing with paint isn’t helping. You haven’t done that since you were a boy. "
"Can I help you, Gildor?" The new voice was slightly husky and mellow as honey, the tone deliberately polite. An elf clad in the muted green and brown Glorfindel recognised as the garb of the on duty warrior had come up quietly while they were – while Gildor was talking. Glorfindel felt the corner of his mouth twitching; Gildor had a long established habit of irritating the people he had chosen not to charm.
A small frown wrinkled the bridge of Gildor’s nose. "Morning, Erestor. No, we're fine, thank you. I was trying to find a halfway decent sword for Lord Glorfindel to work out with." He gave the available blades a glance eloquent in its disdain.
Glorfindel had been introduced to Erestor, Elrond's strategist and head of the Imladris military, but they had exchanged no more than a few polite words till now. On his arrival the vast, crowded house had seemed shatteringly loud and busy, and Elrond had hastened to offer him the cottage until he found his feet. Although he often took meals at the high table with Elrond and his family, he had been seated too far from the captain for conversation.
Erestor for his part had not sought him out, no doubt advised by Elrond to wait until the new arrival showed an interest in his former profession. Glorfindel was grateful, and it was reflected in the warm smile he offered now. "Gildor thinks sword practice would be good for me. I've not had a chance to choose a weapon yet, but I'm sure there will be something that suits."
Unusual golden-brown eyes considered him, then the captain turned to the swords, black hair sliding over his shoulder in a swathe of heavy silk. He ran a long-fingered, knowledgeable hand over hilts as though searching for something, finally coming to rest on one in the third row and about half way down. He withdrew it with a hiss of steel against scabbard. "Try this," he suggested, turning his grip to present the pommel.
The sword settled into Glorfindel’s hand comfortably, the weight evenly balanced and the length similar to his old blade. He nodded and smiled, impressed. "Yes, this fits."
Gildor took it from him before he could examine it further, holding it up to check the blade. "Where was this made? The metal’s uneven here, right below the hilt."
Erestor shrugged slightly. "My calling is the knife, not the long sword, but that seems to be a polishing flaw, scarcely vital," he said blandly, "certainly not during a practice bout. And it was made here, of course, as are all our weapons. Will it serve, my lord?"
His eyes were on Glorfindel and there was something in their depths, concern perhaps, something less invasive than curiosity in any event, that made Glorfindel wonder how much of their conversation the captain had overheard before he greeted them. He nodded, hefting the sword, then sliding it into the scabbard and hooking that to his belt. "It's fine, Captain, thank you. I'll return it in good order."
Erestor smiled and his unusual features -- brown eyes, well-defined lips, the small beauty mark near his mouth - resolved for Glorfindel's artist's eye into true beauty. "I'm sure you will, my lord. Anything else you might need, please don't hesitate to ask. Anyone here can usually tell you where to find me."
Impatient as ever, Gildor left him no time to say more than thank you before hurrying him out in search of a quiet training room, leaving the captain to tidy away the swords that had been taken out, tried and discarded as unsuitable. Glorfindel would have stayed to help, but the fuss would have spoilt the morning calm so he let it be, hoping that Erestor, who had seemed empathetic, would understand.
~*~*~*~
That night they went to the house for dinner and then at Gildor's insistence were sociable and joined a large part of the household in the Hall of Fire for a cup of wine, or in Gildor's case for a small glass of something light brown and potent-scented which he introduced as dwarf brandy. Glorfindel took a careful sip, breathed deeply, and settled for wine.
They had seats near the hearth with Elrond Half-elven, and when talk turned to the situation in the south, something about which Glorfindel knew nothing, he stopped listening and took the chance covertly to study his host. In demeanour Elrond was grave but warm, and Glorfindel thought he saw a slight resemblance to Tuor in how he stood or sat. When he talked though, he used his hands in a way that was curiously reminiscent of Macalaurë. His web-fine hair and silver-grey eyes were indisputably Sindarin, no doubt the gift of Lúthien’s line. Glorfindel had never seen Lúthien, of course, though Artanis – he would have to remember to call her Galadriel – had described her once in caustic detail. There had been no love lost there.
"Why so quiet?" Gildor chided him teasingly. "You were never this retiring in the old days. I was telling Elrond about our sparring match this morning. You're not lost your speed, in fact, if anything you're faster. Now that you've had time to think, how did it feel? Up for more of the same tomorrow?" To Elrond he added, "I won, but it was due more to luck than skill."
Glorfindel considered the question. "It's good exercise, I suppose," he conceded. "I'll see tomorrow, we might try it again, yes."
"Excellent.” Smiling, Elrond began looking around. "Perhaps we can find a few more partners for you besides Gildor. Where’s Erestor...?"
The captain was sitting alone just beyond Elrond’s line of sight, drink in hand, his attention on the trio of musicians currently entertaining them. He had changed into a blue robe and his hair still hung loose, a fall of midnight black. When they came in, he had raised his cup in greeting and full lips had curved into a welcoming smile, but he kept his seat and did not come over to the fire as Glorfindel had half hoped.
"Right now I see it more as a means to get the stiffness out of my bones than anything else," he explained before Elrond could interrupt his captain’s evening. When he first said he had no current interest in resuming his role as a warrior, the grey eyes had looked sad and Elrond had sounded disappointed, so he kept his tone gentle. "I --- Originally it was very much a case of fight or die, or keep preparing yourself to do so, but now... My Lord, right now I would rather focus on the quieter interests I had no time for previously."
Interests like reading and painting that would have been frowned upon in the head of one of Gondolin’s great houses, he thought, but was careful not to say out loud.
Gildor was staring at him and now placed a hand on his arm as though to draw him out of a distraction. "Findel, I'm sure we all understand your wanting a little time to rest and find yourself, but you can hardly be serious about not getting back into training. Dark things are moving out there, I see signs of it every day while I'm on the road. We need to be prepared, all of us. Anyhow, saying you’d be content not to wield a sword is like saying Galadriel would be content with life as a – a seamstress."
Gildor’s tone matched the flash of impatience that came and went in his smoke-blue eyes. Glorfindel felt an urge to raise his voice, make the point again that he was not ready for this right now, possibly never, but he knew Gildor meant no harm. In fact he was doing what Glorfindel himself would have under like circumstances, which was to try and chivvy him into picking up his life and getting on with it. And being Gildor, worldly-wise and vastly experienced, he was probably right.
part two - autumn
Note: written for Zhie for the My Slashy Valentine 2011 swap. She requested Erestor, Glorfindel and possibly Gildor, with E and G filling roles not usually associated with them, for example, non-librarian-Erestor or non-warrior-Glorfindel.
I needed some distance from this story before I could see to tweak it and then post it here and on my website and the SWG. Had planned to divide it into short chapters for the swap but I never had time, so I thought I’d do that here instead, see how it looks – six parts, posting perhaps every second day.
Part: 1/6
Characters: Gildor, Glorfindel, Erestor
Rating: R
Beta: Red Lasbelin
Timeline: some time after T.A. 1000.
Summary: life after rebirth - Glorfindel’s first year in Imladris.
"Glorfindel was tall and straight; his hair was of shining gold, his face fair and young and fearless and full of joy; his eyes were bright and keen, and his voice like music; on his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength."
AWARENESS
The rising sun was painting a line of pale light across the ceiling. Glorfindel watched through half open eyes and listened to the wind. He had been a guest in Elrond’s valley for almost a month now and was trying to learn the weather. There was only a soft breeze this morning, freshening from the south, the warm wind that came before the soft, short-lived rain. The growing rain was how he thought of it. He smiled at the imagery of flowers and crops raising their faces to the raindrops, a fancy of a kind that would have been foreign to his former, more prosaic self.
Gildor lay just touching him, and the first new-familiar slide of other flesh against his own upon waking was still a little unsettling. He had shared a bed with Gildor before, of course, many times after they arrived on this strange, bright shore where Morgoth had fled with Fëanor close behind, but that had been an eon ago, back when his body was still the one his mother had given birth to.
It was as well Gildor was not the cuddly type, at least there had been no waking up entangled in other limbs. Touch was still an uncertain thing for him, though in the past five days he had begun relearning its pleasures.
"Hey. Dreamer. You awake?" Gildor elbowed him good-humouredly in the ribs, yawning. The movement disturbed a sleeping cat, who clambered disgustedly over Glorfindel and left the bed. "Time for some early morning exercise – though not so early, I see the sun’s already up. And speaking for myself, she’s not the only one… "
His hand travelled Glorfindel's thigh and up to his groin as he spoke. What he found there, or failed to find, made him grunt. "Anyone home?" His hand quested, encircled, and Glorfindel found himself responding as nature had intended, hardening, his stomach muscles contracting in response to the first twists of pleasure. He sighed, turned slightly towards Gildor, unconsciously inviting.
"I'm sorry, everything’s still a little slow. My body’s adjusting, I suppose. Some things feel more familiar than others. Like this --- haven’t quite forgotten this...."
Gildor leaned up and over him, tousled red hair falling careless over both their chests. Glorfindel had been amused to find he still hennaed it - the colour was an old joke dating back to Aman, clearly one that had become a part of the legend of Finwe's renegade grandson. "I should hope not," the prince said, smoky blue eyes amused. "Come on, practice makes perfect. And after breakfast – perhaps it’s time you got reacquainted with those other sword skills you were such a master of before."
The barracks housed offices, the armoury, and living space for unwed warriors, and was a long, two floored building set against the cliff. To reach it they had to follow the path through the wood and then traverse the stone flagged river walkway. The last stage, once past the sprawling structure they all referred to simply as the House, was up steps cut ladder-like directly into the face of the cliff. They passed a number of elves on their walk, all of whom seemed busy, none of whom stared for too long. Gildor greeted a couple and ignored the rest while Glorfindel smiled and nodded in response to the quick greetings, ever intrigued by the new, more clipped form of Sindarin.
He looked around as he walked, noticing everything that grew along the way, seeing what bloomed, what faded. He liked the river path for the same reasons he liked the House; it felt timeless, showed signs of repair in places, and had clearly been laid down a very long while ago. Everything in Vinyamar had been temporary, nothing in Gondolin was more than five hundred sun years, whereas Imladris felt old and settled, more like the land he had recently left behind.
Once up the steps they could see an open air practice area beside the barracks, where a handful of warriors were busy with a form of stick fighting Glorfindel had not encountered before. He paused, fascinated, trying to memorise a couple of lines and stances. It would make an interesting sketch if he could just remember the details later…
"Through here," Gildor’s voice intruded, a hand briefly on his arm. "Need to find you a decent sword. They have training rooms inside, too. Suits me more than out there with a ready-made audience, though being watched never seemed to bother you much."
'Inside' took them through a simple foyer and down a passageway to a series of interconnected rooms lit by narrow windows set up close to the ceiling. From the combined scents of leather, metal, sweat, and oil, Glorfindel easily identified this as the armoury. Gildor led him briskly past ranked bows and quivers of arrows, past spears and staves and an entire room devoted to shields, to a short hallway where rows of swords were on display.
"That side, personally owned swords," he said, indicating the majority. "These over here by the door are practice swords and general stock. Borrow one till we have time to get one made for you. Need an appointment with the armourer too..."
Quietly Glorfindel interrupted him. "I don't think I need armour, Gildor. I don't really see myself bearing arms again any time soon, except for dire emergencies. I was sent back as an advisor, not a warrior."
Gildor made an impatient sound. "You say now, while everything still feels strange. You'll soon be more like yourself and the best way to get there is by spending time on the things you excelled at. Of course you’re feeling out of touch. Shutting yourself up in that cottage and playing with paint isn’t helping. You haven’t done that since you were a boy. "
"Can I help you, Gildor?" The new voice was slightly husky and mellow as honey, the tone deliberately polite. An elf clad in the muted green and brown Glorfindel recognised as the garb of the on duty warrior had come up quietly while they were – while Gildor was talking. Glorfindel felt the corner of his mouth twitching; Gildor had a long established habit of irritating the people he had chosen not to charm.
A small frown wrinkled the bridge of Gildor’s nose. "Morning, Erestor. No, we're fine, thank you. I was trying to find a halfway decent sword for Lord Glorfindel to work out with." He gave the available blades a glance eloquent in its disdain.
Glorfindel had been introduced to Erestor, Elrond's strategist and head of the Imladris military, but they had exchanged no more than a few polite words till now. On his arrival the vast, crowded house had seemed shatteringly loud and busy, and Elrond had hastened to offer him the cottage until he found his feet. Although he often took meals at the high table with Elrond and his family, he had been seated too far from the captain for conversation.
Erestor for his part had not sought him out, no doubt advised by Elrond to wait until the new arrival showed an interest in his former profession. Glorfindel was grateful, and it was reflected in the warm smile he offered now. "Gildor thinks sword practice would be good for me. I've not had a chance to choose a weapon yet, but I'm sure there will be something that suits."
Unusual golden-brown eyes considered him, then the captain turned to the swords, black hair sliding over his shoulder in a swathe of heavy silk. He ran a long-fingered, knowledgeable hand over hilts as though searching for something, finally coming to rest on one in the third row and about half way down. He withdrew it with a hiss of steel against scabbard. "Try this," he suggested, turning his grip to present the pommel.
The sword settled into Glorfindel’s hand comfortably, the weight evenly balanced and the length similar to his old blade. He nodded and smiled, impressed. "Yes, this fits."
Gildor took it from him before he could examine it further, holding it up to check the blade. "Where was this made? The metal’s uneven here, right below the hilt."
Erestor shrugged slightly. "My calling is the knife, not the long sword, but that seems to be a polishing flaw, scarcely vital," he said blandly, "certainly not during a practice bout. And it was made here, of course, as are all our weapons. Will it serve, my lord?"
His eyes were on Glorfindel and there was something in their depths, concern perhaps, something less invasive than curiosity in any event, that made Glorfindel wonder how much of their conversation the captain had overheard before he greeted them. He nodded, hefting the sword, then sliding it into the scabbard and hooking that to his belt. "It's fine, Captain, thank you. I'll return it in good order."
Erestor smiled and his unusual features -- brown eyes, well-defined lips, the small beauty mark near his mouth - resolved for Glorfindel's artist's eye into true beauty. "I'm sure you will, my lord. Anything else you might need, please don't hesitate to ask. Anyone here can usually tell you where to find me."
Impatient as ever, Gildor left him no time to say more than thank you before hurrying him out in search of a quiet training room, leaving the captain to tidy away the swords that had been taken out, tried and discarded as unsuitable. Glorfindel would have stayed to help, but the fuss would have spoilt the morning calm so he let it be, hoping that Erestor, who had seemed empathetic, would understand.
That night they went to the house for dinner and then at Gildor's insistence were sociable and joined a large part of the household in the Hall of Fire for a cup of wine, or in Gildor's case for a small glass of something light brown and potent-scented which he introduced as dwarf brandy. Glorfindel took a careful sip, breathed deeply, and settled for wine.
They had seats near the hearth with Elrond Half-elven, and when talk turned to the situation in the south, something about which Glorfindel knew nothing, he stopped listening and took the chance covertly to study his host. In demeanour Elrond was grave but warm, and Glorfindel thought he saw a slight resemblance to Tuor in how he stood or sat. When he talked though, he used his hands in a way that was curiously reminiscent of Macalaurë. His web-fine hair and silver-grey eyes were indisputably Sindarin, no doubt the gift of Lúthien’s line. Glorfindel had never seen Lúthien, of course, though Artanis – he would have to remember to call her Galadriel – had described her once in caustic detail. There had been no love lost there.
"Why so quiet?" Gildor chided him teasingly. "You were never this retiring in the old days. I was telling Elrond about our sparring match this morning. You're not lost your speed, in fact, if anything you're faster. Now that you've had time to think, how did it feel? Up for more of the same tomorrow?" To Elrond he added, "I won, but it was due more to luck than skill."
Glorfindel considered the question. "It's good exercise, I suppose," he conceded. "I'll see tomorrow, we might try it again, yes."
"Excellent.” Smiling, Elrond began looking around. "Perhaps we can find a few more partners for you besides Gildor. Where’s Erestor...?"
The captain was sitting alone just beyond Elrond’s line of sight, drink in hand, his attention on the trio of musicians currently entertaining them. He had changed into a blue robe and his hair still hung loose, a fall of midnight black. When they came in, he had raised his cup in greeting and full lips had curved into a welcoming smile, but he kept his seat and did not come over to the fire as Glorfindel had half hoped.
"Right now I see it more as a means to get the stiffness out of my bones than anything else," he explained before Elrond could interrupt his captain’s evening. When he first said he had no current interest in resuming his role as a warrior, the grey eyes had looked sad and Elrond had sounded disappointed, so he kept his tone gentle. "I --- Originally it was very much a case of fight or die, or keep preparing yourself to do so, but now... My Lord, right now I would rather focus on the quieter interests I had no time for previously."
Interests like reading and painting that would have been frowned upon in the head of one of Gondolin’s great houses, he thought, but was careful not to say out loud.
Gildor was staring at him and now placed a hand on his arm as though to draw him out of a distraction. "Findel, I'm sure we all understand your wanting a little time to rest and find yourself, but you can hardly be serious about not getting back into training. Dark things are moving out there, I see signs of it every day while I'm on the road. We need to be prepared, all of us. Anyhow, saying you’d be content not to wield a sword is like saying Galadriel would be content with life as a – a seamstress."
Gildor’s tone matched the flash of impatience that came and went in his smoke-blue eyes. Glorfindel felt an urge to raise his voice, make the point again that he was not ready for this right now, possibly never, but he knew Gildor meant no harm. In fact he was doing what Glorfindel himself would have under like circumstances, which was to try and chivvy him into picking up his life and getting on with it. And being Gildor, worldly-wise and vastly experienced, he was probably right.
Note: written for Zhie for the My Slashy Valentine 2011 swap. She requested Erestor, Glorfindel and possibly Gildor, with E and G filling roles not usually associated with them, for example, non-librarian-Erestor or non-warrior-Glorfindel.
I needed some distance from this story before I could see to tweak it and then post it here and on my website and the SWG. Had planned to divide it into short chapters for the swap but I never had time, so I thought I’d do that here instead, see how it looks – six parts, posting perhaps every second day.
