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keilissTitle: Life After
Part: 2/6
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 Two
AUTUMN
He would not give up the cottage; about that he was adamant and Gildor was unable to budge him. After the quiet of Mandos, the peace of Aman, he was not yet ready for the bustle of Elrond’s house. It was only a short walk away he pointed out, close enough that the kitchen could even send meals over should he wish them, or so the head cook had said when he stopped by for supplies a few days ago. The library was available as was the Hall of Fire, the training grounds, and any company he could possibly lack.
Gildor had surveyed the parlour which currently served as studio and reading room, with its piles of books, pots of paint and unfinished canvasses, raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. Glorfindel, who barely recognised himself at times, understood only too well that whatever Gildor had expected to find when he arrived in Imladris, it could hardly have been a reclusive scholar and artist living in a cottage in the woods.
He also knew his living space looked eccentric, but he had been a great lord with household staff in Gondolin and was still getting used to sorting out his own mess. In time he assured both Gildor and himself, he would find a routine.
This aside, there were few disagreements. Gildor talked and Glorfindel listened and began to build a picture of the shape of Elven history since his death above Gondolin. In the past they had been a casual but good couple, riding, fighting, drinking together, always with a crowd of friends. When Glorfindel had followed Turgon while Gildor remained with Fingon, there had been no intent on either side for the parting to be permanent, but then no one had understood how utterly Turgon planned to seal his city off from the world. Despite the separation, when they met again in the final stages of the Tears, it was as though they had never been apart.
Now, after their second parting, things were very different and the fault, Glorfindel knew, was all his. Gildor hadn’t changed. A little less willing to tolerate fools and with a greater need to be up, about, moving, but these were characteristics that had always been part of him. He was not the one who shunned crowds and had given up his sword in favour of paint and charcoal.
Despite all this, Gildor settled in with no great show of impatience or of any eagerness to return to his nomadic lifestyle. It was a testament in its way to their history, because it was a long time since he had stayed in one place for more than a few weeks at a time, save for winter when he and his company of wanderers sought secure shelter. He said merely that he would winter early, stay close, support Glorfindel while he adjusted to his new time and place, and would see what spring brought.
~*~*~*~
He had been there almost a third of a month now as the stars measured such matters, and already Glorfindel was having fewer dreams filled with smoke and heat, from which he would wake gasping for breath. When he did, the familiarity of Gildor sleeping peacefully beside him, his red hair spread across the pillow, brought its own kind of peace.
They went up to the barracks almost daily for their morning practice. Gildor was already put off balance by all the changes, and Glorfindel thought it only fair to continue this one interest they could share, especially as Gildor claimed to need the exercise during this time of comparative inaction. Glorfindel had swiftly grown faster, his accuracy deadly. Sometimes his new body surprised him, sometimes it made him almost uneasy in its speed and poise. He knew he looked the same as before, but there were subtle differences which he was finding slowly, one by one. That he bore no scars was the least of it.
This particular morning, Gildor had stopped to speak with an acquaintance and Glorfindel had gone ahead to retrieve his sword. A sound behind him made him turn, but it was just to find Erestor standing in the doorway carrying a sheathed sword. They had reached the stage of greeting one another in passing and once or twice Erestor had joined the group around Elrond when he and Gildor had been there, displaying a quick, dry wit and an infectious laugh. Now, Glorfindel smiled a greeting. “Good morning, Captain. Planning a workout yourself this morning, perhaps?”
Erestor shook his head, extending the sword. “Not quite, no. I have a mountain of paperwork to go through today, there’s a council meeting this afternoon and I need to make the case for a larger budget – again. No, this is for you. The other was a training sword, this is more suited to a prof – to a master.”
Professional rather than master was the word he had first chosen, and Glorfindel hid a smile at the quick recovery, appreciating the implied diplomacy. He took the sword and drew it, and it came out of the scabbard with a whisper of sound. The blade gleamed in the morning sunlight, moving obedient to the slightest shift of muscle and tendon. The hilt was silver, leather wrapped, with a dragon chased upon it, and there were decorative whorls along the blade, though he saw the runes of protection and speed in their rightful places. He stepped back, tried a few passes.
“This is a beautiful weapon, Captain. Not new but well cared for and moves as though it knows me. May I ask its history?”
The smile made Erestor look quite young despite the memory of long years in those dark eyes. “It belonged to my brother. He passed to Mandos at the end of the Age and I’ve kept his sword since. Not sure why, it’s not my weight and he was tall like you. It’s a waste to have a good blade gather dust in a corner. I thought it would please him to offer it to you, so I had it sharpened. You may keep the practice sword instead, of course. Whichever suits you best.”
Glorfindel took time now to examine the weapon more carefully. Old, not flashy and ornate but the trusted tool of a warrior. He nodded slowly. “It – may never be used outside of a practice hall, Captain…”
“Erestor,” the captain corrected him. “If you would. And no, my lord, I realise you have no intention of joining the next patrol crossing the Ford, but it’ll be in use, and that’s better than being put aside as a memory – a memory from long enough ago it took me days to remember I had it to offer.”
“I’ll call you Erestor if you’ll call me Glorfindel,” he responded smiling, still testing the sword, cutting the air, pivoting and thrusting. “I am simply Glorfindel, sent back to Endor to be lord now of nothing larger than a cottage. And thank you, I am honoured by your gift.” Not just by the sword, though it was a fine one, but by the compliment implicit in its offering.
For some reason he did not care to examine too closely, he did not share his new weapon’s history with Gildor. The moment never seemed right.
~*~*~*~
They fell into a pattern, which surprised Glorfindel almost as much as Gildor because patterns had never appealed to either. In the mornings they went to practice – with the sword, with staves, Gildor’s favourite, and increasingly with the bow, archery being Glorfindel’s weak point. After that his time was shared between exploring the valley, which Gildor knew well, painting, or cultivating his tiny patch of garden. Gildor teased that this at least would have made his mother happy – she had been known for her love of gardening.
He also found it easier, more comfortable, to meet the residents of his new home individually rather than en masse, and getting to know his neighbours made him feel closer and more a part of life in the valley. He had always been friendly and curious before, and that seemed not to have altogether deserted him.
At night he read while Gildor spent time in the Hall of Fire with friends both from amongst his own people and from Imladris. Glorfindel went along with him on a fairly regular basis, had a glass of wine, chatted with Elrond, his family and whomever happened to join them, then went back to the cottage, leaving Gildor to wander home when he was ready. It gave him reading time and meant Gildor had no need to give up what he saw as the perks of a winter in Imladris.
Almost imperceptibly their relationship became centred more on friendship and shared memories than on any physical need. Gildor was true to his word after his fashion, leaving only for brief sojourns into the north and west, taking him away from Imladris not more than a few days at a time. He seemed to understand Glorfindel’s need for the familiar, and to hope, assume even, that over time he would slowly find his way back to who he had been before.
He saw little of Erestor; the captain was riding with his men, determining the best routes for winter patrols. He remembered doing this in Gondolin and found himself smiling in sympathy.
part three - winter
Part: 2/6
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."
AUTUMN
He would not give up the cottage; about that he was adamant and Gildor was unable to budge him. After the quiet of Mandos, the peace of Aman, he was not yet ready for the bustle of Elrond’s house. It was only a short walk away he pointed out, close enough that the kitchen could even send meals over should he wish them, or so the head cook had said when he stopped by for supplies a few days ago. The library was available as was the Hall of Fire, the training grounds, and any company he could possibly lack.
Gildor had surveyed the parlour which currently served as studio and reading room, with its piles of books, pots of paint and unfinished canvasses, raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. Glorfindel, who barely recognised himself at times, understood only too well that whatever Gildor had expected to find when he arrived in Imladris, it could hardly have been a reclusive scholar and artist living in a cottage in the woods.
He also knew his living space looked eccentric, but he had been a great lord with household staff in Gondolin and was still getting used to sorting out his own mess. In time he assured both Gildor and himself, he would find a routine.
This aside, there were few disagreements. Gildor talked and Glorfindel listened and began to build a picture of the shape of Elven history since his death above Gondolin. In the past they had been a casual but good couple, riding, fighting, drinking together, always with a crowd of friends. When Glorfindel had followed Turgon while Gildor remained with Fingon, there had been no intent on either side for the parting to be permanent, but then no one had understood how utterly Turgon planned to seal his city off from the world. Despite the separation, when they met again in the final stages of the Tears, it was as though they had never been apart.
Now, after their second parting, things were very different and the fault, Glorfindel knew, was all his. Gildor hadn’t changed. A little less willing to tolerate fools and with a greater need to be up, about, moving, but these were characteristics that had always been part of him. He was not the one who shunned crowds and had given up his sword in favour of paint and charcoal.
Despite all this, Gildor settled in with no great show of impatience or of any eagerness to return to his nomadic lifestyle. It was a testament in its way to their history, because it was a long time since he had stayed in one place for more than a few weeks at a time, save for winter when he and his company of wanderers sought secure shelter. He said merely that he would winter early, stay close, support Glorfindel while he adjusted to his new time and place, and would see what spring brought.
He had been there almost a third of a month now as the stars measured such matters, and already Glorfindel was having fewer dreams filled with smoke and heat, from which he would wake gasping for breath. When he did, the familiarity of Gildor sleeping peacefully beside him, his red hair spread across the pillow, brought its own kind of peace.
They went up to the barracks almost daily for their morning practice. Gildor was already put off balance by all the changes, and Glorfindel thought it only fair to continue this one interest they could share, especially as Gildor claimed to need the exercise during this time of comparative inaction. Glorfindel had swiftly grown faster, his accuracy deadly. Sometimes his new body surprised him, sometimes it made him almost uneasy in its speed and poise. He knew he looked the same as before, but there were subtle differences which he was finding slowly, one by one. That he bore no scars was the least of it.
This particular morning, Gildor had stopped to speak with an acquaintance and Glorfindel had gone ahead to retrieve his sword. A sound behind him made him turn, but it was just to find Erestor standing in the doorway carrying a sheathed sword. They had reached the stage of greeting one another in passing and once or twice Erestor had joined the group around Elrond when he and Gildor had been there, displaying a quick, dry wit and an infectious laugh. Now, Glorfindel smiled a greeting. “Good morning, Captain. Planning a workout yourself this morning, perhaps?”
Erestor shook his head, extending the sword. “Not quite, no. I have a mountain of paperwork to go through today, there’s a council meeting this afternoon and I need to make the case for a larger budget – again. No, this is for you. The other was a training sword, this is more suited to a prof – to a master.”
Professional rather than master was the word he had first chosen, and Glorfindel hid a smile at the quick recovery, appreciating the implied diplomacy. He took the sword and drew it, and it came out of the scabbard with a whisper of sound. The blade gleamed in the morning sunlight, moving obedient to the slightest shift of muscle and tendon. The hilt was silver, leather wrapped, with a dragon chased upon it, and there were decorative whorls along the blade, though he saw the runes of protection and speed in their rightful places. He stepped back, tried a few passes.
“This is a beautiful weapon, Captain. Not new but well cared for and moves as though it knows me. May I ask its history?”
The smile made Erestor look quite young despite the memory of long years in those dark eyes. “It belonged to my brother. He passed to Mandos at the end of the Age and I’ve kept his sword since. Not sure why, it’s not my weight and he was tall like you. It’s a waste to have a good blade gather dust in a corner. I thought it would please him to offer it to you, so I had it sharpened. You may keep the practice sword instead, of course. Whichever suits you best.”
Glorfindel took time now to examine the weapon more carefully. Old, not flashy and ornate but the trusted tool of a warrior. He nodded slowly. “It – may never be used outside of a practice hall, Captain…”
“Erestor,” the captain corrected him. “If you would. And no, my lord, I realise you have no intention of joining the next patrol crossing the Ford, but it’ll be in use, and that’s better than being put aside as a memory – a memory from long enough ago it took me days to remember I had it to offer.”
“I’ll call you Erestor if you’ll call me Glorfindel,” he responded smiling, still testing the sword, cutting the air, pivoting and thrusting. “I am simply Glorfindel, sent back to Endor to be lord now of nothing larger than a cottage. And thank you, I am honoured by your gift.” Not just by the sword, though it was a fine one, but by the compliment implicit in its offering.
For some reason he did not care to examine too closely, he did not share his new weapon’s history with Gildor. The moment never seemed right.
They fell into a pattern, which surprised Glorfindel almost as much as Gildor because patterns had never appealed to either. In the mornings they went to practice – with the sword, with staves, Gildor’s favourite, and increasingly with the bow, archery being Glorfindel’s weak point. After that his time was shared between exploring the valley, which Gildor knew well, painting, or cultivating his tiny patch of garden. Gildor teased that this at least would have made his mother happy – she had been known for her love of gardening.
He also found it easier, more comfortable, to meet the residents of his new home individually rather than en masse, and getting to know his neighbours made him feel closer and more a part of life in the valley. He had always been friendly and curious before, and that seemed not to have altogether deserted him.
At night he read while Gildor spent time in the Hall of Fire with friends both from amongst his own people and from Imladris. Glorfindel went along with him on a fairly regular basis, had a glass of wine, chatted with Elrond, his family and whomever happened to join them, then went back to the cottage, leaving Gildor to wander home when he was ready. It gave him reading time and meant Gildor had no need to give up what he saw as the perks of a winter in Imladris.
Almost imperceptibly their relationship became centred more on friendship and shared memories than on any physical need. Gildor was true to his word after his fashion, leaving only for brief sojourns into the north and west, taking him away from Imladris not more than a few days at a time. He seemed to understand Glorfindel’s need for the familiar, and to hope, assume even, that over time he would slowly find his way back to who he had been before.
He saw little of Erestor; the captain was riding with his men, determining the best routes for winter patrols. He remembered doing this in Gondolin and found himself smiling in sympathy.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-17 20:11 (UTC)Fish.
no subject
Date: 2011-05-17 20:33 (UTC)*hugs*
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Date: 2011-05-18 03:21 (UTC)Eressë
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Date: 2011-05-19 20:14 (UTC)I would really love to have seen your take on the role reversal idea. I was worried when I started that they'd come across as OCs who just happened to be called Erestor and Glorfindel, but as it went along I felt (hoped) they stayed true to themselves. I'm thrilled you feel I nailed it, and that you find this a plausible portrayal. I'm particularly glad you like Erestor, I had to change the way I write him far more than I did Glorfindel, and hoped seeing him through Glorfindel's eyes would give a strong enough picture.