Chapter Text
History and politics.
Those are the two things that interest him the most, which catch his attention, of which he owns more than enough knowledge. Yes, he has loads of information hidden inside his skull: of culture, of science, of Men and Dwarves and Halflings, of Rohirrim and Rangers, of Valar, Maia and Istari. But most, out of all, he knows about politics and history. And most of all, he loves history. That is why he enjoys listening to the musicians in the Hall of Fire, for they tell briefer, but more emotional parts of history. Ah, it is only seldom he manages to actually listen, for his usual days pass by buried under loads of work.
And Erestor works with what he loves.
History.
Politics.
As the Chief Counsellor of the Lord of Imladris, Erestor has gotten access to the beautiful, wonderful library. He couldn’t be happier about it. It is where he goes to find sources and references, to see how others have solved a problem or two, to find peace.
Unfortunately, peace is not exactly the word the Elf would use to describe his attitude now. Lord Elrond has become sick, and therefore all the work has fallen to his hands. As if there had not been enough before! Luckily his friend, Lindir, a musician and an Elf very deeply in love, helps him when he is able to. Erestor would recognize the looks that the small Elf gives to the subject of his affection anywhere –he has seen them millions of time before, in his mother’s eyes, in his father’s eyes, in the eyes of his friends, in the eyes of his friends’ mates, in the eyes of children and in the eyes of adults. In the eyes of Dwarves and in the eyes of Hobbits and in the eyes of Men alike. No one seems to escape the weird note woven to the history of this world. No one, except him, apparently. And nowadays, he would not count on that either.
The night has already fallen when Erestor returns to his chambers. He glances at the note on his desk immediately, and groans. Not another one. He moves softly, as is his habit, in front of the mirror, and looks closely to his own eyes. He cannot see the same awakening, the same hidden warmth in his eyes. They stare back blankly, yet furiously. Is it not then love? Yet as Erestor turns to the small letter, opens it from its folds, and reads it, there are things that he cannot control. First of all, there is the uplifting of the corners of his mouth. If he tries to stop it, a twist somewhere in his stomach tightens, and the something that is trapped by the tightening twist screams, and he has to walk several times around his chambers, trying not to scream out. It is not pain, but pleasurable, so very pleasurable happiness. And even now, he closes his eyes and grins to himself, feeling warmth on the sight of the letter. It is simple, in perfect beautiful handwriting of old, made perfect by imperfect little doodles.
"The sun shone today brilliantly.
You were locked in your office.
Perhaps it would be time to step out, shake off the dust and go enjoy the sun?"
Erestor takes another paper, and starts to write on it carefully, his hand aching from all the other times he had picked a quill today.
"It is cold outside.
I already have my sun."
And this small letter he folds to be a small square, and leaves it on his desk. The sender of the letters would find it from there next time he would come.
As Erestor finally lies on his bed, he wonders still whether this all is a huge joke. For weeks he had now gotten these small notes, not every day, but at least every second, or third. For no results had he tried to figure out the sender: the warriors he had ruled out, for they had monthly patrols, and could not therefore give him notes while away. Except if someone did it for them. All that he knows is that if he keeps a watch on his room, the note will not come. If he tries to catch the sender, the note will not come. The most suspicious part of it is that his door is always locked. He has not seen anyone break locks in Imladris, so whoever it is, must have keys. And his Lord Elrond is completely ruled out of question. Of course, Erestor has his wishes on who is the secret sender of the cute notes. He has been answering them for the past week now, always leaving an answer to wait. Yes, he dreams that the Elf sending them would be who so often he nowadays sees. It is wrong to dream in such way of one’s great friend, no, it is wrong. And therefore Erestor keeps himself in check and lets not his thoughts drift when in his company.
But who in Imladris does not love the charming blonde? The Elves are in awe with him, in they admire his past deeds and his serious, but humorous personality. His hair reminds Erestor of a pith of a lemon. Not the outer part of the peeled skin, no: it is too bright yellow. The lighter yellow, the pith, the inner part of the peeled lemon skin, that is the colour he is reminded of. His eyes are bright, at the same time as grave as Erestor’s, but owning some kind of embrace of life. As if they would know more of the joy and happiness. Even when dressed in the darkest red robe that conceals everything, even if he would have the large, thick hood on, his fairness and brightness shine through his eyes.
Yes, Glorfindel, the Lord of the fallen House of Golden Flower. Glorfindel of fallen Gondolin. Glorfindel, the Balrog-slayer. Glorfindel of Rivendell. Mighty among mighty, strong among strong, wise among wise and most of all, kind among kind. A warrior, a hero. That is the Elf that makes Erestor doubt that perhaps fate has still planned love on his path.
There are always two sides to a story. Yes, he knows it, because he has listened to the mean and evil words of those that dislike his graveness and, how they call it, coldness.
Unable to love.
Snob.
Nerd.
He does not particularly care for those names, or the worse ones he has gotten, for more than often he has his friends who tell otherwise, no matter how small that circle is. More than often Elrond has told him that his position is not because they are friends, but because he truly is knowledgeable in his field.
There are always two sides to a story.
And Erestor longs to know the other side of the nameless letters.