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At first Gildor thought the bedroom was empty, but a moment more of looking revealed Erestor curled in the window seat. In a gown gray and midnight blue, he was little more than a shadow in the darkness. Gildor raised his lantern, closed the door behind him, and said, “Are you well?”
“I am,” Erestor said. His hair slipped off his shoulder as he turned his head, the diamonds woven into his braids flashing under the lanternlight. His feet left the seat and found the floor. “I only had to escape for a minute—but not from you. Join me?”
“Gladly.”
The window faced away from the party, but the singing in the garden on the other side of the house drifted in through the panes, and the torchlight did, too. Gildor set the lantern by Erestor’s feet and reached around him to close the curtains, banishing the world outside, then sat down. He took Erestor’s hand and rubbed a thumb over his knuckles. “I’d love to tell you I’m here out of unselfish concern,” he said, “but in fact I agreed with Glorfindel that it was best to leave you alone—until the Lord Finrod found out I’d been at Nargothrond and cornered me. Then it seemed quite urgent that I check on you.”
Erestor smiled, the tilt of his mouth curious. “I would’ve guessed you’d be delighted. There was a time I thought I’d never hear the end of your going on about him.”
In Middle-earth, Gildor had indeed gone on about Finrod, his king in ancient days, and the path into exile he’d taken for love of his cousins: and Gildor too for love of him. It had been a good story, an unchanging story, one Gildor could hold onto as Middle-earth slipped out from under him. One day, not long after the birth of Elrond’s sons, he had returned to Imladris from another long journey and reunited with Glorfindel and Erestor in their usual way, with joy and a sojourn in bed. It was the first day of spring, and Elrond was throwing a party, so afterwards Erestor did Gildor’s hair while Gildor painted Glorfindel’s eyes and lips. Gildor and Glorfindel wished Erestor a relaxing night with his books, then went out to dance and drink and sing.
Sometime near the end of it, Gildor said to Glorfindel, “Master Elrond has outdone himself. I don’t believe my King Finrod could have done better.”
“That is a high compliment,” Glorfindel said, laughing, “but I can’t say the same of my King Turgon. There remains no match in all the world for Gondolin’s parties.”
They’d exchanged a glance, a flash of grief in it. Gildor had taken Glorfindel’s hand and squeezed.
Now Erestor squeezed Gildor’s.
“He was dead,” Gildor said, “and so forever the same King of Nargothrond I had loved. He’s no king now. Did you see him? No jewels! And he’s happy.” He shook his head. “He’s happy. That is cause for joy. But I find myself overwhelmed by it all.”
“It’s the people we once knew returned,” Erestor said, “but returned strange, and to a strange land.”
“Yes,” Gildor said. “Yes.”
They sat hushed for a minute. The bedroom was Erestor’s, decorated to his taste with calligraphy on the walls and a bedspread of tessellating colors, but so far Glorfindel had slept here most nights and Gildor half of them, and they had already left evidence of it: Glorfindel in the bed’s dozen soft pillows, Gildor in the plush rug for his easily chilled feet. There was peace here, certainty. On Eressëa, neither dragon nor demon nor Elves bound by an evil Oath would ever fall upon their home. It would never sink beneath the waves. Gildor breathed in and tried to believe that.
Laughter pierced the air, loud and sudden, half the party at least contributing to it. Gildor said, “We might pay a visit to your kinswoman’s tower. There we’d stand half a chance at finding some quiet.”
“I’d like that,” Erestor said. Gildor glanced at him, surprised: he’d meant it mostly as a joke. Erestor’s lips quirked at whatever expression Gildor wore. They both knew he’d agree to it whatever his original thoughts. He was always looking for an excuse to travel. “It shouldn’t be hard to convince Glorfindel, either,” Erestor said. “He’ll be glad to see Eärendil.”
“Then let’s suggest—”
A knock on the door cut Gildor off. “Speaking of,” he said a moment before Glorfindel let himself in. “Glorfindel! Are our guests panicking over the absence of their hosts?”
“I’m sorry. I promised I wouldn’t disappear,” Erestor said.
“Peace!” Glorfindel said. “So you did, and I asked you not to hold yourself to it. Our guests aren’t panicking. They can take care of themselves for a few minutes at least. I only came to tell you that the custard tarts are about to be served.” With a nod towards Erestor, he added, “I can bring you one, if you like.”
“No,” Erestor said, standing. “We’d better return. If anyone wonders where we were, we can tell them we were inspecting the tarts.”
“If you like,” Glorfindel said again. He held out a hand, and Erestor walked right up to him and allowed himself to be wrapped in Glorfindel’s arms. Glorfindel kissed his cheek. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I should’ve known my relatives would want to bring three plus ones each. You know how it is with them. Any excuse for a party.”
“And a housewarming is quite the excuse,” Gildor said.
“So it is. Once the house is properly warmed, it’ll be quieter. And if even the occasional caller is too much, we can go somewhere quieter still. I hear good things about Elwing’s tower.”
Erestor and Gildor exchanged a pleased look. Erestor said, “That’s what Gildor suggested.”
“So we’re all three in agreement,” Gildor said as he rose. “We should find the Lady Elenwë and ask her the best way to get there. I know she visits often.”
Glorfindel nodded. “An excellent idea.”
The three of them stepped into the hall. As they walked, Glorfindel lay a warm hand on Gildor’s shoulder and Erestor reached out to adjust Gildor’s hair. Gildor laughed at them, but his heart swelled at the affection. They’d all had to start over a few times in their lives, and often they’d done it alone. How lucky they were to do it again in the company of each other, loving and loved in turn.