Chapter Text
They call them tattoos. They are wrong. They’re more like scars.
Letters that sear their skin, the acrid smell of burning flesh a constant reminder that their future is not theirs to see. Phrases like chains. Words like a brand. Humanity reduced to the animal under the ringmaster’s whip.
There is nothing that is not written. Nothing that will not be followed.
Excuse me?
Erestor runs a hand over his neck. He knows the words are covered, his penchant for high collars ensure that. He revels in the rumours that he is markless. Even those who take no interest in sex or romance have marks, someone they connect with over everyone else. But Erestor has a reputation to upkeep and even the idea of a soulmate - platonic, romantic, or whatever - would ruin that.
He hates the lot he has been given in life. Despises it.
Excuse me? He might as well be one of the poor souls with the word hello etched into their skin. How many occasions call for that ludicrous phrase?
Excuse me, could you pass the salt?
Excuse me, I need to get through.
Excuse me, you’re looking lovely today.
It takes all Erestor has not to snort at that last one. People didn’t approach him saying such things. Not because he isn't attractive, but with his face permanently set in a scowl, it's hard for people to describe him as ‘lovely’.
And, just like any human, he’s not in the habit of dealing with his issues in a healthy manner. He has too much on his plate already.
He wonders briefly if that’s why he’s grown to be so caustic. With such ambiguity scored into his skin, anyone could have a hand on his heart. It’s been years since he smiled at someone who says the phrase to him, even longer since he’s said it himself. He walls himself off, a perimeter of stone around his heart, a mask of ice to ward off would-be’s. He can’t be too careful. He has too much to lose.
Excuse me? Are you fucking kidding me?
A gust of wind makes him tug his scarf tighter around his neck. With his collar pulled up so high, he can barely feel the cashmere against his throat, but it makes him feel safer. He hates the cold and the gloom of winter, hates the festivities that drive people insane and broke. But Erestor wears winter clothes like soldiers wear armour, his scarf a cloak, his scowl a sword.
Summer is hell in his collars, and he’s yet to figure out a better way to hide his birthmark. But, despite his hatred for it, it is winter where he truly thrives.
It dreads him to think he is almost at his destination. It meant radiators and lukewarm cups of tea, served with a faux-polite smile and a drop too much milk. Warm offices with cushioned seats. It meant taking off his scarf, and his coat, and turning down his collar.
It meant laying bare a portion of himself that Erestor wasn’t ready to share.
But it is a good job. His first day, in fact. It pays well, and it’s a job he has dreamed of for years now. The last thing to ruin it would be a goddamn excuse me.
A man meets him at the doorway, a great beast of ornately carved wood and wrought iron locks the size of his palm. He holds out his hand for his coat, a practiced smile on his lips.
Erestor ignores him and walks past him into the building.
He meets Elrond soon after, recognises his voice from the phone and his face from the backs of his books, all of which Erestor has read. He, too, has a mark. The words are ashy, like ink on vellum. Creased and bleached by time. Well, are these the eyebrows my mother has told me so much about? And what a charming fellow attached crawl their way across both palms.
Elrond catches him and smiles. “You must be Erestor,” he says, excusing his stares. “I’ve read your essays. Very well written. It’s wonderful to finally meet you in person.”
“Charmed,” Erestor mutters, without much enthusiasm. But Elrond seems to recognise that the fact that he says it at all at least means something. He doesn’t take the hand that Elrond offers him, partly because he doesn’t like to shake hands, and partly because he’s worried what will happen - if anything will - if he touches the faded letters carved into Elrond’s hands. A mark like that usually spoke of a death.
Elrond nods with another smile. He takes a step back, giving Erestor his space. “Come,” he says, his hand hovering above - but not quite touching - Erestor’s elbow. “Let me give you a tour of the building.”
The tour is mostly uneventful. He meets some of the other inhabitants: Lindir, Melpomaen, other names he forgets to remember. He remembers his office, however, a glorious maze of empty bookshelves begging to be filled and a mahogany desk tucked into a comfortable nook just far enough away from the door that he just knows he won’t need to stand up to answer any knocks - they can let themselves into his future office if they want his time. Elrond nearly has to tear him away from it.
Before he realises it, the day is almost over, and Elrond is still laughing and chatting absentmindedly to him, spurred on by the occasional hum from Erestor.
Erestor is still thinking of his office - he has been all day - and he walks on ahead without realising that Elrond has stopped a few feet behind him.
“Mister Erestor.”
He blinks at the sound of his name. He turns around to find Elrond laughing with a towering, golden behemoth of a man.
Elrond beckons him over excitedly. Warily, he follows.
“I’d like you to meet Captain Glorfindel. I’m sure you’ll get along swimmingly.” He feels Elrond’s eyes on him, prompting him forward to greet him. Glorfindel has extended his hand, silver scars pockmarking the dark skin of his knuckles.
“I don’t shake hands, let alone with a military dog like that,” Erestor says. He brushes past him; at least, he does until a vice-like hand jerks him backwards. Captain Glorfindel’s hands aren’t as warm as they look.
There’s something guarded about his expression but anger quickly overtakes it. “Excuse me? ” Glorfindel hisses. Erestor finds himself being whirled around to face a beast in armour, not the cashmere and cotton that Erestor guards himself with but inlaid leather and silver with a sheen that Erestor can see his own sneer in.
Clearly this dog takes pride in his coat, Erestor thinks, and then those scarred knuckles connect with his nose.
It takes a moment for Erestor to blink away the spots of light that dance in his eyes. When he touches his nose, his fingers come back red.
Glorfindel’s mouth is set in a grimace that, given any other occasion, Erestor might have had some appreciation for. Were it not for his eyes trembling with rage, he could have been carved from stone.
“Excuse me?" he says again. “I’m going to give you a chance to apologise because I’m kind like that. You want to try that again, and speak to me as if I’m not, for example, an animal?”
His fingers dig into Erestor’s shoulder. Glorfindel’s voice echoes in his head, as unrelenting as a hurricane. The words on his neck begin to ignite, so hot, so bright, that he’s surprised it doesn’t burn a hole in his scarf.
He might have noticed it more were it not for the blood dripping down his chin. Soaking into the cashmere.
Erestor wipes the blood from his nose with the back of his hand; it’s near-invisible against the black of his sleeve. He opens his mouth, and then Elrond steps between them, glancing dangerously at them both.
“Captain,” he says. He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t shout. He speaks with a civility that only true authority can muster, a respect unworthy of them both. “Captain, you will apologise to Mister Erestor.”
It’s hard not to smile when Erestor spies a shudder that courses, for less than a second, through Glorfindel’s body, but it brings him to his full, impressive height, more than a head taller than Erestor could ever dream of.
“Forgive me,” he says after a moment, after inhaling a breath to steady his rage-wrecked body. There’s that look in his eyes again, the one that Erestor knows all too well from his own reflection: the captain is keeping something from them both. “I... perhaps acted rashly.”
“Perhaps,” Erestor begins to say, sleeve still pressed to his nose to stop the blood flow, but then Elrond holds up his hand.
“Now that this has been sorted out, would you not agree, Mister Erestor, that we must finalise it with a handshake?”
His eyes are harder than Erestor’s are, hard enough to beat him down. With visible reluctance, Erestor extends his hand.
Glorfindel’s is warm when he takes it, warmer than it was when piercing his shoulder. Not quite as warm as the words smouldering on his skin.
They don’t shake, so much as stare at each other with their hands clasped in loathing solidarity.
When they look back, Elrond is smiling at them both. He reaches up and touches Glorfindel’s elbow, and then he’s gone.
“Excuse me,” Erestor says. He repeats. He whispers. The words feel alien on his tongue, it’s been so long since he’s said them. They leave a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
He stares up at the man who owns the voice that still reverberates in his head. The man with the voice, who spoke those very words that have seared his skin since the day he was born, stares back.
He sees Glorfindel’s fingers move subtly to his side - at first, Erestor is sure he is reaching for the hilt of his sword to run him through, but then they rest for just a moment on his hip.
“Military dog,” he murmurs. It’s said with some familiarity, like he knows the words all too well. It’s followed by a scoff. It takes just one step of his long legs for him to stride past Erestor, his hair flying out behind him like a cape. Against his dark skin, the gold of his braid shines like the sun.
His hand is at his hip again, pressed tight as if he were swathing a wound.
Erestor touches his neck and watches him leave. There’s a rivulet of blood tetering on his lip, and he suspects his nose might be broken, but the pain is nothing compared to the blistering heat he feels tracing the letters on his neck.
“Excuse me."
Erestor wipes the fresh blood from his face. He tightens the scarf around his neck.