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Glorfindel blinked awake, squinting at the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows. He grumbled and turned over, throwing an arm over Ecthelion's chest, not wanting to wake just yet. Waking meant having to get out a warm bed. Waking meant dealing with the household. Waking meant going through the letters he had sent out, looking for –
Glorfindel closed his eyes and turned his face into Ecthelion's warm skin. He didn't want to think about that. Not right now. Not when he could imagine Erestor there with them, tucked between them, sleepy and curled on his side, a thin crescent of dark hair and pale skin. Glorfindel had almost panicked once, while out on the trail with Erestor when they were headed to Lothlórien after receiving a summons by Galadriel. (Well, Erestor received a summons and Glorfindel had been worried about it. Elrond had just rolled his eyes at him but Glorfindel had gone with Erestor regardless. He needn't have been worried. It seemed that the Lady Galadriel and Erestor had something of a tradition of him being 'summoned' to Lothlórien and Erestor arriving with barrels of Thranduil's ice wine that had somehow shown up in the cellars of Imladris.)
Anyway.
They had stopped for the night at a quiet glen that Erestor said was his traditional resting spot. Glorfindel had taken the first watch. Glorfindel had been content to watch the stars turn, listening to the quiet sounds of the night time creatures creeping about their camp...when he realized he couldn't hear Erestor breathing. He'd almost panicked, wanting to shake that thin shoulder, only to realize that Erestor was breathing, just...silently. So quietly not even Glorfindel's keen ears could pick it up. He'd tried to laugh it off but he knew he was in trouble then.
He had long admired Elrond for his grace and wisdom through the years of their friendship. When Glorfindel had come to Elrond's court in the settlement of Imladris he had been happily surprised by Elrond's Chief Counselor, a Moriquendi elf named Erestor. Glorfindel had not had the best track record with the members of their kind that had not come to Aman. Either they seemed to shy away from him or he somehow insulted them in ways he still did not understand. This Erestor, though, was neither servile nor sharp. He had taken one look at Glorfindel, raised his eyebrow in a way that had sent a bolt right down Glorfindel's spine, and then smiled at him – a true smile, with no hidden shadows in his eyes nor barbed words that Glorfindel had seen Gil-galad's counselors use. No, this Erestor was wise, as wise as Elrond, if quieter about it. He was gentle, when needed. He was stern, when it was required. He was wily and smart and beautiful and –
Well. Erestor was many things to Glorfindel. A friend, first and foremost. But...Glorfindel had always wanted more. But there was a catch to that.
Glorfindel had wed Ecthelion in a glorious celebration in the heart of Gondolin in its sweet, happy days. They had grown up together. They had crossed the Helcarax ë together. They'd had so many firsts together that it seemed natural to bind their fëa together and be one for eternity together. It was just...when they had , they had realized that there was something missing. Some one missing. Someone that their fëa called to. Someone that they dreamed of, but could never see their face. But time passed and they never found that elf – and even if they had, they knew they would have received a massive amount of backlash from even contemplating taking a Third into their household. It just was not done. Not in Gondolin. Not with the strains of the Vanyar elves that had come with them over the Helcarax ë. Not with the way their people had been so set in their ways that such a thing, a triad, could not be borne.
But then Gondolin had fallen and all thoughts of their Third had been set aside. They had done their duty, to their city, to their King, to their people. Glorfindel had gone to the Halls of Mandos knowing that he would see Ecthelion again, and in Aman, they would be able to find their Third and be happy once more.
Glorfindel had never thought he would be summoned to Lord Manwë's throne and given such a solemn duty. None in Aman had ever been sent to Arda, even during the War of Wrath their peoples had only visited, not stayed. None were allowed to linger in Arda. Glorfindel had no way to deny the Vala's order, so he had kissed Ecthelion goodbye and boarded one of the swan-necked ships and was taken back to Arda's far distant shores.
And, on that fall day when he had rode into the courtyard of Imladris and met one Master Erestor, Glorfindel knew that he'd found their Third. But in the eyes of the elves in Arda, in Erestor's eyes, Glorfindel was Bound to Ecthelion. He was married and no married elf strayed. The harshest of consequences could be set down on an elf for such a transgression. No, all Glorfindel could do was keep Erestor close, befriend him, watch over him, seethe with fury when Thranduil flirted with him – though the flat stare Erestor would give the Greenwood king was always a delight to see – and count down the days until they were all in Aman together so that Glorfindel could introduce Ecthelion to Erestor and they could finally, finally come together, as they should be.
Never had Glorfindel thought that Erestor would not come with him off the boat. Glorfindel had been so eager to get to Ecthelion, to grab his arm and pull him forward to meet Erestor, that when the rest of the lords of Gondolin had waylaid them he had been rather startled and unable to pull Ecthelion back towards the boat. Never did he think that Elrond would be swept away in the rush, along with him, with such a commotion about them that when they were finally able to catch their breaths they realized that neither Erestor nor Lindir were anywhere to be seen.
“Thinking about him again?” A soft hand ran through Glorfindel's hair. He grumbled and pressed closer to Ecthelion's side. “We will see him soon,” his lover whispered. The faith Ecthelion had in such things had always taken Glorfindel's breath away. “I am looking forward to it. I waited this long to see you again. I am willing to wait however much longer it need take to find our Erestor as well.”
Glorfindel kissed him then and they spent the morning in much happier thoughts, twined together in the sheets until the insistent knocking from their butler drew them out of the room at last.
Glorfindel didn't much like their butler. He was a taciturn fellow by the name of Kelidran. He had been assigned to their manse by King Turgon – though why they needed a butler in the first place was beyond him. It was a bit...jarring to return to Aman and see how things had stayed so rigidly in place. When they had left the Halls of Mandos such structure had been...welcoming. Soothing. Everything had a purpose and everything had a place. Even the tiers in Tirion had made sense. But...in Glorfindel's going and return, such rigid structure had been somewhat of a slap in the face. For in the Ages that had passed, things had not grown smoother, nor more inclusive. Tirion was a city upon a hill, crystal bright and blinding, with only the lords and ladies of the noble lines present in the streets. There were no small stalls that held sizzling delicious treats. There were no hawkers crying their wares. Small boutiques were in their proscribed lanes and nothing more. Everything else could be ordered. Sent out for. Separated from them by the walls and the gates of their precious city on a hill.
Glorfindel didn't like it. Not one bit.
Their manse had been moved in the Ages he had been gone as well. Glorfindel didn't like that either. They resided at the very top of Tirion, where those who were deemed to be heroes or kings of nations were hosted. The house Ecthelion led him to was a tasteful mix of Ecthelion's blue and silver heraldry, with accents of Glorfindel's crimson and gold. But there wasn't much color in the household and Ecthelion had never cared much for such decorations. Glorfindel did. Glorfindel wanted color. Wanted the riotous, vibrant colors of paintings and murals, tapestries and knickknacks. Kelidran had not approved of Glorfindel's cloaks being draped over the furniture. Kelidran did not approve of the paintings he had brought over from Arda, preserved in tubes by Erestor, to be displayed in Glorfindel's home. He'd had to track those tubes down several months into being in Aman once more, only to find them in the cellar and at the risk of getting damp.
Glorfindel had had a rather loud fit about that. Kelidran had been quite apologetic. The paintings had gone up, but only after Glorfindel kept asking after them. And asking after them. And asking after them . It was infuriating. But they couldn't send Kelidran on his way, not without upsetting Turgon, for their king had picked their butler out personally, so Glorfindel's integration back into Tirion's society would be seamless. Or so he was told.
Glorfindel didn't care a whit about Tirion's society. He was getting rather tired of Tirion's society . He wanted the ease of Elrond's Hall of Fire. He wanted the singing and the poetry and Bilbo's sly jokes slipped in between his ostentatious poems. He wanted the long nights at the tables, sipping wine and betting on whether or not Erestor would manage to slip ink into Thranduil's bath once more. He wanted to laugh with the guards as Erestor and Bilbo pranked them all with honey on the hilts of their practice swords.
Glorfindel wanted the life he'd found in Imladris. Every chaotic moment of it. Not this...bland replica of some perfection none of them had ever wanted or needed. He wanted his Ecthelion and his Erestor and if Tirion didn't like it then they'd leave. Go out into Aman and make their own way, or go visit the cities of Men, or bother Bilbo in the Gardens of Yavanna, anywhere but in this strange crystal cage that had become Tirion.
Glorfindel had not panicked, not at first, when they did not hear from Erestor. Surely their dear friend had family in Aman he was visiting. The same with Lindir. But as the days turned to weeks and not even a note had been delivered – either to Elrond or himself – Glorfindel began to worry. And as weeks became months, that worry deepened. When one year turned and Elrond's increasingly pointed questions about where his Chief Counselor and Head Musician were, Glorfindel started to notice the looks Elrond was getting. The pity. The dismissal. Galadriel had seen it too, but she had gone quiet, not like Elrond. Elrond had just gotten louder, sending request after request to the docks, to the officials who kept a census of the households in Tirion, to anyone he could think of.
Glorfindel added his voice to Elrond's, and in doing so they began to get answers. Their Erestor had been seen in the Springs of Vána with Lindir, supposedly taking in the flowers and gardens of that area. Then they had been in the Isle of Estë, but for reasons none could name. It always seemed as though their messengers had just missed them when their missives went out.
Glorfindel was highly suspicious. He knew Elrond was as well. It was Galadriel's silence on the matter that was the most terrifying. Long had he known the fair Lady. Well did he know her temper. The quieter she got the more dangerous she got. And Galadriel had been silent for far too long.
So, after dealing with Kelidran's fussing, and putting on the required silks and velvet of his station , Glorfindel kissed Ecthelion goodbye to go visit Elrond and see what plotting they could do. They had found they could not speak freely in their own homes, not without interested ears listening in. The one time they had, Glorfindel had gotten a summons to visit Turgon and such a lecture he had gotten in keeping to Tirion's ordered structure that Glorfindel never wanted to deal with it again. No, if they wanted to find Erestor and pick over the reasons as to why Tirion had become so dull and strange, they would need to go somewhere they could speak freely.
So to lower Tirion they went.
They had learned over the two years they were in their fair city that the lower you went in Tirion the...looser things were. Not to the level of their dear Imladris but the staid rigidity of the upper tiers was gone and Glorfindel could actually see color in the decorations the lower they went. There were shops and more life the closer they got to the gates. They had seen the streams of elves coming and going from their city, smiling and talking to one another, arm in arm as they went about their day. Such a difference from the quiet strolling and the polite parties of the upper tiers.
Glorfindel wanted to move down immediately. Ecthelion had counseled patience. Someone was keeping Erestor and Lindir from them, but they could not figure out who or why. So in upper Tirion they stayed, but would often arrange meetings like the one Glorfindel and Elrond were on, to walk the walls and gaze out over the fair lands that surrounded the city, free of any interested listening ears.
It always started the same. Elrond would direct the carriage to some random point on Tirion's lower levels, were the best walking paths were found. Then he would have the carriage stop and they would get out, Elrond first, who would be looking out over the vista with his customary intent look. Then he would turn to Glorfindel and say, “Shall we take a walk along the walls?”
And Glorfindel would say, “Right now?” He could see how the guards would get that pinched look in their faces.
And Elrond would say, “Why not?” And those guards, those interested listeners, would be forced to step back, would be forced to clear the area, would be forced to do their jobs as Glorfindel and Elrond wandered out along the path, alone as they could be.
It was a fine spring day. Winter had been long, longer than normal though some said that was just the nature of things. There was still a slight nip in the air as they walked along that path, Elrond with his hands folded into his robes and Glorfindel with his clasped behind his back. He heard one of the guards say something indistinct as they stepped out of earshot, but that was to be expected. More than once they had followers trace their steps. Glorfindel had still not figured out who sent them.
Half a candlemark passed before they were on a lonely stretch of wall, overlooking the green fields beyond Tirion. Elrond paused his steps there, lips pursed, a tiny frown etched between his brows. “Galadriel is going to make a move soon, if we do not find them,” Elrond finally said. “I think she knows more than she lets on.”
“She is Galadriel, of course she knows more than she lets on,” Glorfindel stepped up to Elrond's side. “Where do you think they are?”
Elrond's frown deepened. “I do not know. I have sent people to look for –”
“Elrond!” Called a familiar voice. Glorfindel felt as though a bolt of lightning had shot down his spine. From beneath them, swinging up from the ivy hanging on the wall, came a lithe body dressed in a drab black robe, more tattered and worn than Glorfindel had ever seen him. “Might I have a word?” That beautiful face was thin – far too thin – and Erestor's hair was in a loose braid that Glorfindel had never seen him wear before. But he was there. Erestor had found them .
One of their missing loved ones had finally come home.