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The Hall of Fire was alive with song. Lantern-light danced across polished wood and gilded carvings, while laughter rose in bright waves above the strains of harp and flute. The solstice feast had ended hours before, but the merriment showed no sign of waning.
Glorfindel stood among it all, bright as the sunlight his name bore, yet strangely still. His golden hair gleamed in the firelight, but his smile was a shade too careful, his laughter too quiet to match the joy around him. Where others leaned together in easy camaraderie, Glorfindel seemed apart, a tower of light shadowed within.
He had danced once, at another’s urging — quick, graceful, effortless as ever — but when the song ended, he had excused himself with a bow and retreated to the edge of the gathering. There he lingered, cup in hand, though he drank little. His gaze wandered often to the high windows where night pressed close, dark and untroubled.
It was not the first solstice his mood had dimmed, and none remarked upon it. Yet Erestor, seated not far away with a group of scholars debating some long-forgotten verse, marked every flicker of distraction, every sigh hidden beneath bright courtesy. His dark eyes followed Glorfindel when the captain slipped from the warmth of the hall into the shadowed corridor beyond.
A breath later, Erestor rose, ignoring the puzzled glances of his companions. He set aside his wine, gathered his cloak more tightly about him, and moved after the golden lord without a word.
The hum of music fell away as he stepped into the night. Ahead, Glorfindel’s tall form lingered on the garden path, his head tilted back toward the stars as though seeking something there. He did not turn when Erestor joined him, only moved forward slowly, as if he had been waiting for his friend all along.
Without speaking, Erestor fell into step beside him, and together they walked out beneath the lanterns strung along the garden ways, leaving the revelry behind them.
The lanterns strung above their heads cast pale rings of light upon the otherwise shadowed garden paths. From the Hall of Fire drifted the voices of song, bright and clear, mingled with the low hum of instruments. The merriment of the spring solstice filled every corner of Imladris that night, for joy and thanksgiving were familiar companions in the Hidden Valley. Yet this festival was set apart—a night for laughter among friends, for shared remembrance, and for hope of renewal.
But beneath the starlight, along the dimly lit paths, two figures wandered in silence side by side.
The spring solstice had long been a painful night for Glorfindel. Though he had known the quiet mercy of Mandos’ halls and centuries had passed since his return, the memory of Gondolin’s fall lay like an unhealed wound upon his spirit. Fire and ruin rose too readily in his mind with each awakening of spring, and what joy he managed to summon through the year always dimmed beneath this season’s weight. He bore his grief with a soldier’s discipline, but the solstice stripped away even that, leaving him quieter than most were accustomed to see.
The Elves of Imladris had learned long ago not to ask. Many had borne their own scars of exile and loss, and grief, however long endured, was a companion they all knew. Their captain was given space, not out of indifference, but out of respect — though some whispered that it was also for fear of Erestor’s wrath should they deepen Glorfindel’s sorrow with careless words.
The chief counsellor knew well the shape of grief, and in the long centuries of friendship with Glorfindel he had learned how best to temper it: not with platitudes, nor pity, but with presence. Sometimes their walks through the gardens were filled with quiet talk; sometimes they were wordless. Yet always Erestor remained near, a dark flame steady beside Glorfindel’s golden brightness.
Tonight, the weight in Glorfindel seemed changed, as though there was more than memory pressing upon him. His stride was slower, his gaze often sliding toward his companion, his lips parting as if on the edge of speech — only to close again.
Erestor did not turn his head, but he felt it: the flicker of eyes upon him, the gathering and retreat of unspoken words. His heart stirred uneasily. He could guess at the question Glorfindel did not voice.
Night deepened around them, until at last their wandering brought them once more to the Hall’s doors. Music still spilled outward, bright as starlight, but Glorfindel lingered, uncertain whether to bid farewell. Erestor walked on without pause, and Glorfindel, caught between parting and pursuit, hastened after him.
“Do you not wish to join the merrymaking?” Glorfindel asked, his voice soft.
Erestor gave a short huff, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff, but offered no reply. The silence that followed coaxed forth the first true smile from Glorfindel that night — a smile that lit his face with sudden warmth. Erestor caught it, and despite himself, felt his own lips curve faintly in return.
When they reached the counsellor’s door, Erestor paused. “Do you wish to come in?” he asked gently.
He was not surprised when wariness flickered across Glorfindel’s face. On any other evening the captain would have entered gladly, ready to share a chessboard, a book in companionable silence, or a tale of old follies told over too much wine. But tonight was not like other nights.
“There is an unfinished game awaiting us,” Erestor pressed quickly, before refusal could be spoken. “And half a bottle of wine as well. I am restless yet, and would rather company than solitude.”
Glorfindel shook his head, gaze falling away. “Perhaps another time. Thank you, as always, for your kindness.” He offered a smile, small and apologetic, and bent his head in half a bow before turning to go.
“Glorfindel,” Erestor murmured, his hand rising to catch lightly at the warrior’s arm. The contact stilled him as surely as any command. “Will you truly leave without asking the question you have circled all evening?”
The golden lord froze. His eyes flickered down, then away again, and though his lips shaped denial, the flush that crept to his fair cheeks betrayed him.
“I know not what you mean, Counsellor,” Glorfindel began, shifting uneasily. Yet his words faltered as Erestor’s soft laugh broke the silence. Glorfindel turned — and found, to his sudden dismay, that they stood close enough for breath to mingle. The faint smile upon Erestor’s lips stole the air from his lungs.
“Do you not?” Erestor asked, voice low. He leaned forward, and before Glorfindel could retreat or protest, his lips brushed his companion’s.
It was no more than a whisper of a kiss, fleeting as falling starlight, yet when Erestor drew back, his pale face was touched with a flush that even the dim lantern-light revealed.
“I will not accept it,” he said softly. “The Lady’s offer to return with her to Lórien. I will not go. All I desire is here in Imladris. I would not leave you.”
The words seemed to slip from him unbidden, and for once, the counsellor who was ever poised and certain looked unmoored.
For a long breath, neither moved. Then Erestor turned, as if to retreat into his chambers. But Glorfindel could not bear to let him go — not after such a confession. He reached, caught Erestor close, and drew him into his arms. His mouth found his companion’s, silencing the startled gasp with a kiss deeper, truer than the first.
Erestor yielded, melting into the embrace, and Glorfindel held him fiercely, as if the world might yet be torn away. His hands trembled as they pressed against the dark silk of his friend’s robes, and his heart thundered like a war-drum in his chest.
“I am in love with you,” he breathed against Erestor’s lips when at last they parted.
A laugh, soft and incredulous, slipped from the counsellor. He leaned close once more, resting his brow to Glorfindel’s.
“I know,” he murmured. And for the first time that night, the shadow lifted.
For a long while they simply stood there, held fast in one another’s arms, as if both feared that to move would shatter the fragile spell between them. Erestor’s head rested lightly against Glorfindel’s shoulder, his breath warm against the captain’s throat. The silence that lingered was not heavy as before, but new — hushed, reverent, like the pause after a prayer.
Glorfindel closed his eyes. He had not dared dream of this, not in all the centuries they had walked side by side. Yet here, in the quiet beyond the revels, Erestor’s closeness felt not like a dream, but an anchoring truth.
Erestor shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to study his face. The sharpness of the counsellor’s gaze, usually keen as steel, had softened into something vulnerable, almost boyish. “You are trembling,” he murmured.
Glorfindel gave a faint laugh, unsteady. “A warrior, undone by a counsellor,” he said, though his voice shook. “I have stood before balrogs without fear, yet one smile from you and I am lost.”
The corners of Erestor’s mouth curved upward, faint but sure. “Then it is well you did not stand alone against me.”
That drew another laugh from Glorfindel, this one truer. The sound seemed to lift some weight from the night. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss against Erestor’s temple — tender, lingering, full of the words he had not yet found.
“Stay,” Erestor whispered. His hand tightened upon Glorfindel’s sleeve as though he feared he might yet be left behind. “Come inside. For once, do not flee to your solitude.”
There was no hesitation this time. Glorfindel followed as Erestor led him within.
The chamber was dimly lit, the glow of a single lantern soft against shelves of books and scrolls. The chessboard remained where they had left it nights ago, pieces mid-battle, as though waiting. A half-filled bottle of wine stood on the table, forgotten.
They moved together toward the hearth where a small fire still burned. Erestor poured them each a measure of the wine, though his hands were uncharacteristically unsteady, and passed one to Glorfindel.
For a time, they sat close on the low couch, drinking in silence, the nearness between them more intoxicating than the wine. Glorfindel found his gaze drawn again and again to the faint blush across Erestor’s cheek, the curve of his lips still reddened from their kiss. At last, he set the cup aside, his hand finding Erestor’s almost without thought.
“This changes everything,” Glorfindel whispered.
Erestor’s dark eyes met his, steady now, though no less tender. “No,” he said softly. “It changes nothing that matters. We are still who we have always been. Only now, we do not hide from it.”
Glorfindel’s heart swelled until he feared it might break with the weight of joy. He bent, capturing Erestor’s lips again, this time with no hesitation, no fear. And Erestor met him with the surety of one who had waited far too long to be kissed in earnest.
When at last they parted, breathless, Glorfindel rested his brow to Erestor’s. “Then let us not hide again,” he murmured.
Outside, the lanterns in the gardens swayed gently in the night breeze, and the laughter from the Hall of Fire rang faintly still. But in Erestor’s chamber, silence held — not the silence of grief, but of peace.
For the first time in many centuries, Glorfindel felt the solstice pass without shadow.