Work Text:
The public spaces of the House of the Golden Flower honor its name. Its lord chooses the plantings carefully, selecting shades of yellow blossom from palest ivory to burnished bronze. He fills the halls with flowers that stake a claim to character and petition fate for favor in the ancient language of bud and bloom. Pathways and courtyards and window-boxes overflow with coreopsis for cheer; jasmine for grace and elegance; yellow lilies for happiness; amaryllis for pride; goldenrod for good fortune; gladioli for courage; rudbeckia for justice. And everywhere, there is elanor, the sun-star, carpeting and cascading, filling the House with golden light.
In his personal space, Glorfindel’s choices tell different stories. His private garden is a riot of colors and shapes, trees and flowers and herbs commingling, contrasting and harmonizing, visually echoing his own ebullient spirit. It is also a tribute to those he loves: he plays with hue and tone and shape and positioning to honor and remember family, friends, and comrades present and long lost. Most of all, it speaks his heart to Ecthelion, shares in living language his deep and unshakeable devotion. There, the yellow blooms are daffodil, daisy, yarrow: symbols of unequalled, loyal, everlasting love.
Ecthelion is away, riding the borders, maintaining the leaguer and keeping a keen eye on overall readiness and morale. He has been gone long, and in his absence, Glorfindel’s garden has turned the season into summer. It is rich with the scent of herbs and heavy with blossoms in the late afternoon light. Glorfindel has escaped the day’s council session with his composure intact, and he has rewarded himself with an evening of work in the garden. Hands in the earth are restorative after long hours of negotiation and compromise.
He sings to himself softly as he weeds and prunes, tenderly tying back sprawls and propping up seed-heavy stems.
I will build my love a bower
Near yon pure crystal fountain
And on it I will pile
All the flowers of the mountain...
The late sun gilds his head and shoulders, washes him in light.
Ecthelion arrives at the entrance to the garden on silent feet, unforeseen and unexpected. He pauses for a moment in the shade of the hollies to watch Glorfindel all unaware, then picks up the tune, his warm baritone in easy harmony with Glorfindel’s light tenor. Glorfindel looks up at the sound of his voice, and delight blooms across his lovely face.
Ecthelion is backlit, a spear against the light, and the lean intensity of his silhouette steals Glorfindel’s breath. Then he steps out of the shadow, mirroring Glorfindel’s smile, and holds out a wreath of ivy and honeysuckle that he has twined together on the long road back from the Gate. “I brought a gift for the gardener. May I come in?”
Glorfindel crosses the garden in three strides to capture his hands and draw him close. They are still for a long moment, breathing each other in. Then Ecthelion reaches up and crowns him with the vines. He tangles his fingers in Glorfindel’s curls and pulls his head down for a kiss. Glorfindel bites lightly at Ecthelion's lip and closes the last gap between their bodies. The wreath tilts askew.
“Thel. Yes. Come in. Come home.”