Chapter Text
“Erestor.”
The way Elrond says his name reminds him of his father. He was a clean cut, stoic man that offered his words sparingly, and his affection even less so. Despite this, he was well-respected by all that had the honour of snapping up a few of his rare sentences, and his death was mourned for by more than just the small circle of his family.
Erestor didn’t particularly get along with him. He wasn't sure if it was because what his father excelled in diplomacy, he lacked in fatherhood, or because Erestor was jealous: either way, his father’s death had not been a particularly emotional affair.
Maybe he wishes they had talked a little more. Or talked at all.
Elrond, however, is good at talking, and Erestor appreciates this. He talks openly, through a wizened smile that he is never seen without, and doesn't seem to mind that Erestor often doesn’t respond. His voice had the candor or a fireplace in winter, unapologetic and warm, and begging to be basked in.
Even when angry, Erestor had the feeling that he had not upset Elrond; just disappointed him.
“I know you are new here, so I am inclined to give you a little more leeway in such matters,” Elrond says to him. The bushels of orchids decorating the mantelpiece behind him made him look like a king, crowned in a wreath of leaves and blooming petals. “And, of course, I did not hire you for your sparkling personality.”
Elrond is smiling, so Erestor knows that this is a joke. He makes an effort to laugh a little.
“But,” Elrond continues, “I would very much appreciate it if you did not pick fights with my security.”
Erestor purses his lips. “Ah,” he says. “That Glorfindel told you, then.”
“He didn’t need to. Half the building heard. Poor Melpomaen came running to me, worried that someone had been killed.”
At this, Erestor snorts. “Nonsense. If an intruder were to murder anyone, it would be unlikely there would be so much noise. It would call too much attention to it, and pose too much risk.”
Elrond laughs again, and Erestor tries to laugh with him, though he’s not quite joking.
With one of his faded hands, he offers Erestor a glass filled with the same sort of whiskey his father liked. Smokey and a little sharper than most, with just enough of an edge to make him wince as he downed it in one.
This was becoming too much of a habit. Elrond often invited Erestor to share a drink with him at the end of the day, and before long - if Erestor allowed for it to continue this long, which he was dangerously close to wanting - Elrond might begin to consider them friends.
“Glorfindel is a good man.”
“He has the temper of a sawn-off shotgun.” Erestor hands over his glass, which Elrond happily refills. Elrond raises his eyebrow, not half because Erestor gulps down the freshly-refilled whiskey and proffers it a third time. Erestor shrugs and smacks his lips. “He’s fun to tease, at the very least, even if his reactions are… somewhat erratic, at times.”
“He’s been through a lot. You should try being nice to him, for once.”
Erestor snorts. “Sure. I’ll invite him out for dinner, while I’m at it. Tell him not to worry about the bill.”
He smirks at Elrond’s poor attempt at a disapproving look. His father was never much good at those either. But where Elrond failed because his mouth was so naturally set into a smile, his father failed because it was so unused to moving at all.
Elrond finishes his own drink and, much to Erestor’s disappointment, stows away the bottle back under his desk. “He’s a good man,” he says again. “I would trust him with my life. He’s family.”
He’s looking at the words on his hands as he says this. Erestor looks into his glass, swirling around the dregs and pretending he doesn’t notice.
“Families are supposed to fight,” Erestor says.
Finally, Elrond looks up. “You’re apart of this family, too. So, no more squabbling or I’ll have to send you both to bed without any supper.”
“But dad,” Erestor says, spurred on by the liquid confidence now coursing through his veins, “the Prince of Mirkwood has invited me to a party this weekend.”
The joke sounds strange in his dry tone, and it feels a little dusty on his tongue. There’s a moment where he immediately regrets everything, wondering if he’d overstepped some boundary that forbade making jokes about teenage rebellion. But then Elrond laughs, and Erestor can breathe again.
“Very funny,” he says, and salutes him with his empty glass. “Now, run along home. It’s past your bedtime and you have work tomorrow.”
He knew when he was being kicked out; hell, he’d done it enough himself, and in far cruder ways, to recognise it. Elrond was always speaking of his children, though Erestor had yet to meet them. They had been staying with their grandparents across the country, and were due back early tomorrow morning. Elrond had been wringing his scarred hands in anticipation for the past two days.
Erestor had been offered a room in Elrond’s house, But he had (somewhat) respectfully declined. It was bad enough sharing a workspace with more than his cat, let alone an entire building.
Not that it was likely he would bump into any unsavoury characters: Elrond’s mansion was a veritable labyrinth of corridors, and - while the distant hum of life was a constant threat of interruption, in his first three weeks he had only actually come across a notable few: or at least a few that he bothered to remember, for one reason or another.
There was Captain Glorfindel, of course. He goes without saying. Erestor was rather disappointed to find out that the beautiful (if not incredibly outrageous, and somewhat intimidating) armour was not his everyday wear: the presence of a royal visitor had demanded it of him, Erestor later found out, and one who was still living somewhere amongst the many rooms of Elrond’s household.
Perhaps a good thing, too, since his gauntlets had left quite the farewell on his cheek.
Then there was Lindir, Elrond’s primary attendant. Old money often came with those such fancies. They sometimes passed each other on the way to Elrond’s quarters, Lindir always armed with a practised smile that Erestor didn’t quite trust. It was too bright to be genuine, too toothy to be graced with any such sincerity. He was one to watch.
Melpomaen was another Erestor was still deciding on. This was mostly because Erestor - even though one of his own jobs was to see that the right people got paid the right amount - had no clue what they actually did . He had sometimes seen them in the kitchens, chopping various vegetables, and for a good week or so Erestor had assumed that they were some sort of kitchen assistant.
All was well, until the next day when Melpomaen was pottering around the garden, arm-in-arm with the gardener, plump face shadowed by an extravagantly floppy hat.
A day after that, they were dusting underneath the picture frames, then grooming the horses in the stables, then plucking a mandolin on the stage besides Lindir during one of the many evening events that had come and gone. They were an enigma, painted from head to foot in the offcuts of conversations and first words.
He had seen Santiel in the gardens, and heard her name from Narylfiel in the kitchens, who couldn’t seem to speak of much else. He made a special effort to get along with Narylfiel: she made excellent desserts, and he always made sure to befriend the cook regardless, as he had a habit of growing peckish late at night and free access to the kitchens at any hour tended to be a perk of the friendship. Narylfiel was nice (if not a little skittish at times), and she appreciated both the company and the fresh ear upon which to wax poetic about Santiel, which made their symbiotic relationship all the more easy.
“You look tired.” The first words that meet Erestor when he arrives in the kitchens, accompanied with a teasing laugh. Narylfiel slides a plate of fruit and leftover pastries that she had been saving for him across the countertop. Erestor smothers his scowl with a custard tart as soon as it skid into range.
“I feel tired,” he says to her. He takes another bite; it’s saccharine sweet, sprinkled with a little too much cinnamon - clearly the rejects from whatever feast Narylfiel had cooked earlier in the day, but he appreciates it nonetheless. It’s no whiskey, but it will do.
Narylfiel hums in that way Erestor, in his short time in her company, has noticed her to do - soft and more than a little apprehensive, as though she never quite knows how to respond sometimes but likes to be comforting, regardless. She turns away from him, smiling at the flakes of pastry stuck along the lines of his grimace. Wordlessly, she begins to fill a kettle with water, setting it on the stove to boil while she fiddles with some teacups that her thick fingers made look all the more delicate.
She pushes Erestor a cup of tea on a small platter; he’s not sure exactly what kind just from the smell, but he can pick up notes of ginger and honey as he brings the cup to his lips.
“For the whiskey,” she tells him when the cup returns to the platter, emptied. She refills it with a wink, and Erestor watches, feeling the earlier alcohol settle in a haze around his head, as the flecks of tea dance upon the water’s crystalline surface. “Elrond never stints.”
“It’s good whiskey,” Erestor replies with a shrug. “I didn’t know you drank.”
“I try my best not to.” Narylfiel pulls a face. “I don’t like how I am while drunk, but occasionally I drink a little, if nothing more than to take of the edge.”
Erestor laughs and raises his teacup with the enthusiasm of a dwarf with a flagon of ale. “I’ll drink to that,” he says. He burns his tongue on the next sip, but with the whiskey still coursing through his bloodstream, he hardly feels the warmth.
He watches Narylfiel bite her lip. She’s not particularly pretty, he thinks, but he was never much one for women anyway. Her eyes seem a little too small, lips a little too thick, and her nose looks like it had been broken more than once in the past, set askew by unpractised hands. But her smile is nice, Erestor can recognise that much at the very least. Absentmindedly, as he nurses his second cup of tea, he wonders if Narylfiel has any of Santiel’s words on her skin, and - if so - why she spent her time hiding in the kitchen, watching Santiel with wide eyes through the window.
He’s about to ask, but Narylfiel speaks first.
“I heard you got into another fight with the Captain.” She sounds disappointed in him; Erestor doesn’t like that.
He pushes away his tea with a huff. “It was his fault,” he snaps, despite the fact he hardly believes that. The whiskey has already taken over his tongue.
Narylfiel looks at him cautiously, clears her throat with a delicate cough. “You… occasionally antagonise him. Elrond told me about what happened with Captain Glorfindel’s reports. He shouldn’t have come for you like that, but…” she trails off under Erestor’s withering gaze.
Erestor purses his lips. “I know,” he says after staying quiet for far too long, “I know.” He takes a long, slow sip of his tea, feeling the ginger start to fight back against the clouds of whiskey in his head. “I’m not going to stop; I still hate him. But… I’ll try not to push it too far.”
Narylfiel reaches out and pats his hand. She’s smiling again, and Erestor much prefers it when she smiles. When she’s upset she looks too much like a wounded dog, and - much like her smiles - it’s contagious.
“I figured that,” she says. She refills his tea for a final time. “But it’s a start, at the very least.”